It was difficult to tell where the faded brown of the crinkled-soft envelopes ended and the man's hands began. The perfume, though faint from the years, lingered even yet on the cherished, worn pages. There was a quiet splash as the string-tied bundle was given to the depths; the ripples died swiftly.
* * *
The sun is low, and its rosy light fractures into brilliance on the dancing water with a distant, still figure in a boat the only silhouette. The hours pass unmeasured into night.
