He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. Michelle’s eyes opened, her body paralyzed. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. Absolutely. . He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. I want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow. She exited solemnly, retrieving and carrying Michelle’s unconscious figure into the forest like a reluctant bridegroom. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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