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Updated: June 22, 2025
The girls at my stall were sulky because no one bought of them, while I was surrounded; and one, in lifting a handful of roses, drew them towards her with a spiteful jerk that left a long thorn-scratch across my hand. I pretended not to notice. Then in a minute I cried: "Why, see; how could that have happened?"
On the parchment stood the words: "By virtue of this my signature, I make over my soul to the holder of this, after its natural separation from the body." I gazed with speechless amazement, alternately at the writing and the gray unknown. Meanwhile, with a new-cut quill he had taken up a drop of blood which flowed from a fresh thorn-scratch on my hand and presented it to me.
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