天仍旧很热，没有一丝风，现在有些潮湿。罗伯特金凯德出了一些汗，他的衬衣上面两个扣子开着。他没有直接看她，尽管她感觉到他眼角的余光能够找到她，甚至当他看起来是凝视窗外的时候。当他转身的时候，她可以看见通过衬衫开着的扣子看到他胸部的上面，一些细密的汗珠沾在皮肤上。
弗朗西斯卡正享受着美好的感觉，古老的感觉，诗和音乐的感觉。不过该是他走的时候了，她想。冰箱上的挂钟已经指到九点五十二分。收音机里法龙杨在唱着一支几年前的老歌《圣塞子利亚的神殿》，弗朗西斯卡记得那是公元三世纪的古罗马殉道者，是庇护音乐和盲人的圣者。
他的酒杯空了。正当他视线从窗外收回来时，弗朗西斯卡握住白兰地的瓶颈，向拿空杯子做了个手势。他摇摇头。“罗斯曼桥现在正在曙光中，我得走了。”
It was still hot, no breeze, some humidity now. Robert Kincaid was perspiring mildly,his top two shirt buttons undone. He was not looking at her directly,though she sensed his peripheral vision could find her,even as he seemed to stare out the window. In the way he was turned, She could see the top of his chest through the open buttons of the shirt and small beads of moisture lying there upon his skin.
Francisco was feeling good feelings,old feelings, poetry and music feelings. Still,it was time for him to go, She thought. Nine fitty-two on the clock above the refrigerator. Faron Young on the radio. Tune from a few years back:"The Shrine of St. Cecilia."Roman martyr of the third century A.D., Francisco remembered that.Patron saint of music and the blind.
His glass was empty. Just as he swung around from looking out the window, Francisco picked up the brandy bottle by the neck and gestured with it toward the empty glass. He shook his head. "Roseman Bridge at dawn. I would better going."
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