“I hate swans,” she said. “Don’t you? They’re nasty animals. I don’t care if they’re pretty or not.”
Their table was by the window. Over the top of his menu the doctor saw her looking out and he looked out too, and saw the swans braced on the sloping embankment, short-legged and insolent. The crowded waters of the river furled and folded over, a glacial gray, like liquid stone.
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