They watched tour boats of tourists in the ever present English rain and rare sun; Musette taking pictures of them and the glistening streets, and of tall doormen in Ruritanian costumes in front of hotels, whatever attracted her at the moment. Mingled with the smell of bus exhaust and old churches they held each other. They discovered one funny old church that sat back from other buildings on a small street with a gate at one end. They entered and sat in the stillness, joining the silence, feeling a soft ancient sadness caress them under a timbered beam roof, light filtering through stained glass. They did not touch there, but felt each other’s warmth.