‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. Splendidly. We all did that in our youth, when first we came upon a fine story; else we were worthless metal indeed. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. Mike was showing his territorial instincts, brought out by the fact that he was drunk. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. .
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