It was less symmetrical, in the sheen of the rain, than he remembered it. Then...

It was less symmetrical, in the sheen of the rain, than he remembered it. Then he saw that a man rested there on its steps, his head turned on the rim. One coatless arm, lying loose, pillowed it. The arcade lanterns, dimly exploring, found the darkened blond of soaked hair; the fixed flame of strung jewels and the line of wide brow and closed lid and turned cheekbone whose twin he saw, night after night, on his pillow.
The rain fell. For a moment Jerott stood petrified. Then he ran for his life over the courtyard.
Francis Crawford opened his eyes. 'It's all right,' he said without moving. 'The crucifix marque-vin. I've been as sick as a dog. I deserve to be, don't you think? Poor, bloody Jerott, caught between bastards.