Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. The mode of destruction makes no difference. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. I don't think he'll come to himself too soon.
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