She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. She kept her face downcast. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. .
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