“You must not be certain.”
“I am. I’m absolutely certain.”
Ilse gazed at her, then laughed and pressed her hand. “Are you cold?” asked Palla.
“No.”
“I thought I felt you shiver, dearest.”
Ilse flushed and held out her arms for the sleeves of her fur coat, which Estridge was holding.
They went away together, leaving Palla alone with Shotwell, among the fading flowers.
The ancient Slavonic Venus.