Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. She dare not risk it. Let us be friends—as near and close as friends can be. “And yet I do it without compunction. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips.
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