Waiting alone in the gleaming, antiseptic operating theatre, with the enchanted fragrance of a new spring wafting in from outside, the still-proud Princess thought once more of the ‘Parisian Pirate’, Obadiah, the soldier-lover of her youthful imaginings. He was now, according to the letter on the bureau, on a collision course with the High Council itself.
   Suddenly, came the sound of her own name being called, and she instinctively checked her fingernails. He was here! “I worship you, my perfect little carrot!” he stammered in his curiously endearing fashion.
   Abruptly, the truth — the whole truth — slowly came home to her, and as there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling, she wordlessly let her body melt against his own.