That is the age when Sebastianus took me for his bride. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!.
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