THE CALLS Wait, my love, and I'll be with you. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coal and copper snow.
Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled transiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o'-the-wisps and danger signals.
