"You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. You have actually given up a dinner-party to dine alone with me. But you could have just as easily lost your womb in the Pestilence, and your life. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles at the soldiery. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. .
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