That bruise will answer the same purpose. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. ‘Oh, peste. At last his voice came to release her tension. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. He looked just as Julian had the night she had first met him outside the Joliet Laundromat. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. More often then not he refused to reveal specifics of his own past in Greece and Rome, choosing to relate fables and stories of an impersonal nature. By instinct. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. He returned the locket without comment.
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