In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I can’t endure it,” she said. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. Fear nothing. Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time.
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