She was a faded but still lovely woman of twenty-seven.

that voice was a deathless song.

So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.

The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.

Many nights he lay there dreaming awake of secret cafés in Mont Marte, where ivory women delved in romantic mysteries with diplomats and soldiers of fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian waltzes and the air was thick and exotic with intrigue and moonlight and adventure.

He felt married to her, that was all.

Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy.