“Number 13, please, cabman. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised.
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