Saturday’s crowd had considerably thinned, this late in the evening, the barrow sellers mostly packed up and gone, though shops like Fearing’s remained open. Lowbeer’s car was parked there, cloaked but steaming slightly, an odd effect, though passersby studiously ignored it. A pair of theatrically professorial Italians, deep in conversation, were passing as he emerged. They crossed to an horologer’s shop, diagonally opposite. The car was making random ticking sounds, as of metal cooling, contracting. He remembered Flynne’s face, luminous in the moonlight, stricken. He hadn’t liked having to tell her about the jackpot. He disliked the narrative aspects of history, particularly that part of it. People were so boringly deformed by it, like Ash, or else, like Lev, scarcely aware of it.