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207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. Part 2 The next morning was as dark and foggy as if it was mid-November instead of early March. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. Meantime, every preparation had been made outside for his departure. But I have not done so, and will not.
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