After a while, he missed everything she said because, with the glow in her eyes from the fire, the wine suppressing his inhibitions, and her—Ariatne Morrow—sitting cross-legged on the floor of the room he’d worked, laughed, wept, lived in his entire life in a jumper of his she’d found on his desk chair, speaking of everything with such passion and brilliance, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would sacrifice anything, everything for her.
