She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance. I worship you. It feels like it. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 10-09-2024 07:54:48
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