She has nightmares. Silent Germans row up the Seine in synchrony; their skiffs glide as if through oil. They fly noiselessly beneath the bridge trestles; they have beasts with them on chains; their beasts leap out of the boats and sprint past the massifs of flowers, down the rows of hedges. They sniff the air on the steps to the Grand Gallery. Slavering. Ravenous. They surge into the museum, scatter into the departments. The windows go black with blood.
has row up the in their skiffs glide as if through fly noiselessly beneath the bridge they have with them on their beasts leap out of the boats and past the of down the rows of sniff the air on the steps to the surge into the into the go black with blood.
