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He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. It is one of God’s laws that a woman may defend her honour, even with the shedding of blood. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies.
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