” “Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. ” “But don’t you see how I must stand to you? Don’t you see how it bars us from being lovers—You can’t—at first. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. A nod was exchanged. You simply can't get good oil down there, so I must husband the few drams I carry. Such names shone brightly in the darkness, with black spaces of unilluminated emptiness about them, as stars shine in the night; but now—now it was different; now it was dawn—the real dawn.
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