That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. So she said: “I won’t come home. White said. Oh, God!” Rhea sniffed the air through two gaping nostrils that had eroded through her onion skin flesh. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. She learned that she could orgasm four or five times in a day as they toyed with each other and slept entire days afterward without feeling a single pang of guilt. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun.
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