I will endeavour. I do not wish to return to Paris. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself. “Come in. I’ve always wanted to look older. ” His rhythm slowed to a grind. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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