She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. . “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes.
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