The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. The pistol was lowered slightly. “I mean REALLY independent. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ’ ‘Grateful? Certainly I am grateful,’ Melusine snapped, knowing full well she sounded anything but gratified.
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