The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. As you know my seed is infertile with all women, they are no more than cattle, but it was not so with my Rhea. That was life. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. It was no use. She used to play violin, you know. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. I'm an old hand at such things. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow.
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