I knew where I would go next: Florence. She was nearly dead. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit. "No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. Did he track her? She was unaware if he did. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure.
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