She passed down the stairs and into the street. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all.
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