The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. “Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. ‘Melusine, don’t sit there. “What can you do?” she asked. Though they do, in secret, I believe.
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