The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. Your life is like a funeral March. “It will spoil your life. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. So he found her when he came round the corner of the spinney. He might not condone it, but the feelings that had prompted it augured well for Melusine’s safety. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said.
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