Only she is not Madame Valade at all. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. ’ ‘Comment? But already he has made this visit—in town. Leave me my blanket! I'm very cold at night. ‘Valade, if you don’t mind.
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