Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. It was my destiny to have her. The same overly curly pubic hair, which she now saw was trying to protrude from the sides of her bikini underwear. I have now settled my affairs, and made every preparation for my departure to France, where I shall spend the remainder of my days. Just what it means. Niente.
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