Not that involvement had been in Virginia’s mind when she first saw him, wearily climbing the steps to the cathedral; she had been too fatigued herself, clutching another of those hastily snatched carrier bags of belongings and worrying over where she would spend the night. He was a shambles of a figure when seen from the rear, weighed down by the bulging pockets of his threadbare dufflecoat, and she was so intrigued by the sexless shape that she followed, noting that his head was suitably bowed beneath the hood as he plodded along with a steady monastic gait. Up the steps to the cathedral entrance she quite expected him to stumble and was ready to play Simon of Cyrene to his offbeat Christ. Her assistance was not needed, though, and it occurred to her that perhaps his body was actually bowed by piety and not by tiredness. He circled the sepulchre and she trailed behind, showered by the muted light of the stained glass which slowly became more resplendent as they reached the west side of the cathedral and he noticed her.
