She drew a breath, and sighed it out. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. “I never wanted to kick any one so much in my life as that second fellow. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. ‘I have said that I will tell you nothing of this soi-disant Valade.
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