“I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. ’ A tiny giggle escaped her, and she lowered the pistol a trifle. But this was long ago. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. “Your mother was a Gypsy.
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