*Rosalind*
I have the right of it there, I think to myself, as I walk along beside him, my hand nestled in the crook of his elbow. I'm not certain why it makes me melancholy to imagine him here night after night, searching for something that I suspect will not be found within these gardens.
Music plays. People dance in the pavilion and off of it. Wine and drinks flow; she-wolves, no doubt the charities to which he makes donations, strut about, flitting from man to man, some boldly taking their pleasures out in the open. I don't want to contemplate that he might have found surcease with some of these she-wolves, that he had taken them against walls or trees.
No one acknowledges him, although surely there are people here who know him. I suppose it's an unwritten rule: whatever happens wit
