“You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. But heavens, I must pack!” She sprang to her feet and disappeared in the room beyond, from which she emerged a few minutes later with flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Sure, are you sure you’re okay?” He exited off the highway onto a quiet road and pulled over. “You told me that in the Zoological Gardens.
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