““Lucien was walking at my side. The only live things I had ever owned were lovely pricks, their roots buried in black moss. I cherished several such, and I wanted them in all the flower of their strength. These plants were my pride. Such was my fervor that their bearers themselves were amazed at their unwonted beauty. Nevertheless, each remained fastened, by a mysterious and solid base, to the male whose chief branch it was; he owned it more than I did. It was his. Some flies were buzzing around Lucien. My hand mentally made the gesture of chasing them away. This plant was going to belong to me.””
