I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. She could feel his penis pressing against her, half-erect under the starched black tuxedo pants. And now I break the seals—for you. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers.
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