And yet—I love you. “You forgot to take the safety off! You idiot! You can’t do anything right!” His other hand wormed out of the folds of Sheila’s enormous body. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Gianfrancesco was not ugly, in fact, perhaps he was rather handsome after all. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. The risk I run is nothing to yours.
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