He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed. “I will make it possible,” he cried. I certainly didn’t mean to kiss you. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from her, Sir Rowland. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. For a time they were very difficult. He began to tell me something—and stopped. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend.
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