“To think that you were going to do it—and never said a word! You are a little thin, but except for that you look—you look better than ever. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. As Mrs. Monroe would go to work and Mrs. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. The jolly part of it was that for the first time in her life so far as London was concerned, she was not going anywhere in particular; for the first time in her life it seemed to her she was taking London in. The place pulsed with music too loud to converse above. ” “I am your friend,” he said slowly, “whatever you may have to tell me. I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were.
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