Then for a time she forgot the Fadden affair altogether. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. "He has heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you're like. You have made enough sacrifices for her surely without this. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance.
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