I spent the following day shopping. I remembered Paris with its sad shop windows, its frowsy women, and I bought things left and right for everyone I could think of. We dined out, and when I climbed the wooden stairway holding on to Lewis's arm I thought, 'It's the last time!' The rubies of the gas tank were glowing for the last time between the earth and the sky. I went into the room. One would have thought a cut-throat had just murdered a woman and ransacked her closets. My two suitcases were open, and scattered over the bed, the chairs, the floor, were nylon lingerie, stockings, cosmetics, dress material, shoes, scarves. There was a smell of love, of death, of disaster. In truth, it was a funeral home, and all those objects were relics of a dead woman, the sacraments she would carry with her to the here-after. I stood rooted to the spot. Lewis went over to the dresser, opened a drawer, and took out a mauve carton. He looked embarrassed as he held it out to me.