Gerald’s breath caught. ’ ‘Damnation!’ Gerald burst out, crossing towards her. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Move. Easily. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure.
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