“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere? Look, I recognize you: I met you last summer.”
She brought the boat in, stepped ashore, made fast.
“You were herding goats. You stopped to fasten your stocking. I met you one night.”
A little flush rose to her cheeks, and she laughed shyly.
“Little goat-girl, come into the hut and let me look at you. I knew your name, too—it is Henriette.”
But she walked past me without speaking. The autumn, the winter, had laid hold of her too; her senses drowsed.
Already the sun had gone to sea.