Laura nodded understanding. “Now that I have a friend, it won’t be so lonely till you return, dearest.”

“Would you like me to bring anything special next time?”

“The sandalwood incense?”

“Of course.”

“Now I won’t be lonely,” she repeated. “No. I hope not. Thank you.” And he left them together.

“Do you know Neruda?” Miss Loeb asked.

“Pardon me?”

“The Chilean poet? The Heights of Macchu Picchu? One of his greatest works?”

“No, I’m afraid that I don’t.”

“I have it with me. It is a piece of blazing power. There is a certain strength within it, which I thought you—”

“…Might take heart from while contemplating death. No. Thank you, but no. It was bad enough, just thinking about all the things the few people I have read have said about life’s ending. I am a coward, and I know that one day I will die, as everyone must. Only, in my condition, I have a schedule. This happens, then this happens, and then it is all over. The only thing between me and death is my husband.”

“Mr. Manos is a fine man. He loves you very much.”

“Thank you. Yes, I know. So if you wish to console me concerning this, then I am not especially interested.”

But Yolande Loeb pursed her lips, touched Laura’s shoulder, said, “No. Not consolation. Not at all.

“Courage or faith, perhaps,” she said, “but not consolation or resignation,” and, “ ‘Irresistible death invited me many times: / It was like salt occulted in the waves / and what its invisible fragrance suggested / was fragments of wrecks and heights / or vast structures of wind and snowdrift.’”

“What is that?”

“The beginning of Section Four.”

Laura dropped her eyes, then said, “Tell me the whole story.”