“He won’t come near us again,” remarked Phipps. The murmurs of the crowd, the strange applause for a performance they could not have fullyunderstood, the feel of Kesselman’s hand on his arm, all faded away. But it did, for the recently dead, at least. I pressed my face against his thigh, turning it away from his groin.
He had met a woman at a library sale two years before. Non, lust, not love, never love. I've got some of Jean-Claude's memories. As if this blackness was a darkness made up of every color that had ever existed, every sight that had ever been seen, every sigh, every scream, since time began.
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