Here, it might be anything at all. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The man was mad to marry me. I always thought Mrs. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. She detected that the young officer’s shoulders tensed whenever she moved in the back of his 94 car. Your pets are gone. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here. I can’t love you.
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