He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. Vorsack would just have to live with it. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. He taught her how to read and write in Latin and Greek, often rewarding her for her efforts with a flower or a trinket. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd.
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