The prisoner breathed with difficulty. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. ” She dropped back into a crouching attitude and began to weep. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world.
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