” “You did,” Anna exclaimed. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep. She thought of Capes. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened.
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