.. she holds her peace.

    It is a strange story. Is it not, Caravaggio? ty of a man to t rait of Clifton, but  of tory. t . Somet.

    t day two choices.

    “to you, and I o take. Eit slay Candaules and possess bot yourself  be slain, so t you mayest not in future, by obeying Candaules in all t  die  Gyges in iambic trimeters.  of to dedicate objects at Delpy-eig ill remember ory.

    Sopped reading and looked up. Out of te, I fell in love.

    ords, Caravaggio. they have a power.

    ons  on doing ot, an uncle in some government office. All t at t time ty ion s, meeting at Groppi’s for ts, dancing into t. ty. t I o nohen.

    Dinners, garden parties. Events I  normally erested in but no to because ss until I see .

    o you? it in t of tion for almost a year. I saer, s flooded back into t, noive, t nervous grip of an arm on a cliff, looks t erpreted.

    I  t time seldom in Cairo, t one montment of Egyptology on my oes Explorations dans le Desert Libyque, as to text as if t  emerged from tain pen. And simul-taneously struggled rutautness bee plain of stomace my brief book, seventy pages long, succinct and to t, complete ravel. I o remove o dedicate to o o  I imagined rose  of a bed like a long bo it ed to a king. Believing sucronized by e and embarrassed she head.

    I began to be doubly formal in eristic of my nature. As if a a previously revealed na-kedness. It is a European . It ural for me—ranslated rangely into my text of t—noo step int