She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. She remembered the doctor's warning that the real battle would begin when the patient recovered consciousness. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. They were so good to me. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. I took the money myself, and ought to know. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out.
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