She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. “Morning, Mom. Her small round breasts were vulnerable under her mostly nonfunctional Kmart bikini bra. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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