I don’t remember clouds when we were young. Were there any, my dearest Mina? Just beyond the horizon, perhaps? Or was it all seashore and sandcastles? Such a thought is naive, I know. But aren’t memories always that?
Listen, child. I can toss you out like the baggage you are whenever it pleases me. And don’t think for one moment your tiresome sapphic escapades shock me. You think you’re bold? You think you know sin? You’re still learning the language, I wrote the bloody book.