Now, without the tiny sliver of glass which had caught in her eye and distorted her vision, as with little Kay, she understood at last that she herself could never take a real part in this world, not even a dispassionate part like Gina's for whom it was a source of livelihood and nothing else, for Gina did essentially, even if in a chameleon-like way, belong to this place, to its nocturnal colours, to the smell of pitta breads being baked in Abulafia's blazing ovens and to the red light of the restaurant next door, to the odours of cumin and sesame and roasted honey, and she did not.