Sister Domino sat, as she had almost continually, on a stool at his side.

She wore now a typically Syrian long cotton gown instead of the habit in which he’d first seen her. In truth, he had little or no recollection of their first meeting, and when informed later of his impromptu declaration of love for her, he was understandably embarrassed, although disinclined to deny he’d made such an avowal.

Domino had opened the louvered door and thrown back the curtains on the glassless window, and in the strong sunlight, he saw that she was older than her voice and mannerisms had led him to believe. Older, but no less sparkling of eye. And her pert little nose would have been an apt protrusion from the most popular face at any teen queen dairy bar. As for her mouth (what the hell was he doing evaluating her mouth?), it was one of those perpetually rubicund embossments that resembled a plum squashed half out of its jacket and seemed always on the verge of a pout or a pucker – but only on the verge, for it was a strong mouth, there was a firmness and resolve in it, even when most pursed, even when it modestly smiled. She could smile from six o’clock to doomsday, and nobody would ever see her gums. She exuded warmth and tenderness, but on her own terms.

Her complexion was Mediterranean of hue and thus seemed incongruous with her more northerly nose. Around her eyes the skin looked as it had been trampled by sparrows, a tracing that caused him to put her age at forty. She was forty-six.