It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. '" "What is that?" she asked. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home.
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