They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence. It was drafty and cold most of the time, but she found that she was not nearly as sensitive to the cold as long as he was 99 there to warm her up. Why else?’ Gerald stared at her blankly.
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