The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. At last the panel swung back into the library. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City. “Mid-thirties.
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