There were other letters, in Palermo, in Syracuse. Lewis sent me one each week, as before; and, as before, they all ended with that word 'Love,' which means everything and signifies nothing. Was it still a word of endearment, or the most banal, of formulas? Lewis's tenderness had always been so discreet that I didn't know how much I could attribute to his discretion. When I used to read the sentences he created for me, I would rediscover his arms, his mouth. Was it his fault or mine if they no longer aroused me? The Sicilian sun burned my skin, but inside me it was always cold. I would sit out on my balcony or lie down on the sand; I would look at the flaming sky, the sea, and I would shiver. On certain days, I hated the sea; it was monotonous and infinite, like absence; its waters were so blue that they somehow seemed syrupy. I would close my eyes or I would run away.