How many times must I mourn you? he had asked her. But he hadn’t stopped to think that she could well have asked him the same question. She had lived with the loss of her old friend, wrapped up the memories of him and put them carefully aside with the rest of her former life. The strangest thing was, she thought she’d known him then. And she had, she had. She’d known his father had hurt him. She’d known he hungered for adventure. She’d known he thought too much and laughed too little. She’d known he was a graceful dancer, a decent whip, an excellent shot. But she hadn’t known the way he looked
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