She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. . She is no longer mine; she is yours. A trial always brings those involved into public notice, and I dare say he feels there will be scandal enough without adding to it. On this second excursion, forewarned, she would use no light and keep as quiet as a mouse, she vowed, and thus refrain from attracting the attention of the militia at the gates.
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