She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. "Fire! That was what drew me to you in the beginning. “It might be a policeman borrowing the driveway and looking out for speeders. " "Your husband?" "No. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father.
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