“Mr. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. Stars appeared in the periphery of her vision. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. We are nuns. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. “Turned out to be an impostor, too. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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