But one must disguise oneself. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. She pulled him by his tee shirt, pulling his mouth to her nipple. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous.
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