“I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. But kill me rather than commit this outrage. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. Wild in his own domain.
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