I tried to get across the terrace and onto the bridge to introduce myself, but the crowds did not part and I lost you. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. ’ ‘Oh, that,’ Gerald said cautiously. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right.
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