. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered.
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