You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. And an Englishman, which is my right of birth. Damn! I’ve splashed.
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