“Well,” she admitted. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. They will find me dead, yes. She felt surges of longing escape every corner of her flesh. She could not hide her face. You see, my riddle is solved. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. Stanley took the letter and stood with it in his hand thoughtfully for a time.
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