He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. He was silent. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “I trust,” he said, “that you will recognize the justice of these conditions.
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