“The lavender was uncut, the grass untrodden. Waiting at the Lisquin gate-lodge, Florian read The Brothers Karamazov. He read for most of the morning but no one came; and passing through Rathmoye again on his way back to his now almost empty house, he read there too, on the seat by the memorial statue in the Square.”
“It was more than a fortnight now since he had said the wrong thing in the square in Rathmoye.”
i. am. Florian Kilderry. at least before he leaves.
