You must forgive the poet’s license I take. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. “I’m not a good woman. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. Her aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed. Let me walk you to the door.
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