It was growing dark.
The air of the Russian song that Flora chose was wild and sweet.
“You are my darling, you are my soul
Light of my life, my sun, my goal ...
You are my being, my delight
Star of my darkest night.”
Direct, primitive worship of one man for one woman: Flora’s voice held all the passion that was not in her, save at her music.
The ache at Val’s heart seemed to her physical in its intensity.
She knew what she wanted, now, and she knew that Owen Quentillian would not give it her.
To her own horror, a rush of tears blinded her.