Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Seeing from the threatening looks of his captors, that they were about to wreak their vengeance upon him, the miserable wretch besought mercy in abject terms, and charged his master with the most atrocious crimes. I’ll get in trouble. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor.
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