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 fly noiselessly beneath the bridge they with them on their leap out of the boats and past the massifs of the rows of sniff the air on the to the into the scatter into the windows go black with
