He had grabbed a tiny remote control and flew the thing around the table, landing it there and turning it off. “I do not even know who you are. The picture of her flashed across the doctor's vision magically. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled.
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