167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. “Hello, John. ‘The sisters here will not save you. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. ‘But I’m hanged if I know why you find it so amusing. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. “In that laboratory one gets to disregard these passions,” began Capes.
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