She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. . . I don’t want to bother you, of course. “Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly. A big breakfast is healthier anyway, so they say. She decided to leave after Prom. She may have any number of wasting diseases, but they cannot survive in our bodies. Oh, John. Before a year has expired, you will share the same fate. ” He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a formal statement.
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