Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. I can be that man, the one I know you want. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. She was alone with a deadly enemy.
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