She was no longer there. She was informed by Ah Cum that the Chinaman was one of the literati and that he was expounding the deathless philosophy of Confucius, which, summed up, signified that the end of all philosophy is Nothing. Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. His legs were fine and strong, he told her that he had been a warrior in ancient times, to which she snorted in disgust. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. "Will that do?" he added, returning it. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. She was like an angel with one wing. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them.
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