Do you have family that I should ask?” “Oh, Julian! No, my family is dead, lost. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. 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. “Never heard anything of it. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying.
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