“Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. Over here a man quickly loses faith, and I find myself back on solid ground once more. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. He was a little embarrassed. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. My natural parents both died a very long time ago and I have been on my own for a great deal of my existence.
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