“Why? Why?” She muttered, and I stroked her hair trying to console her.
“What’s your name?”
“Agnieszka...,” she said softly.
I helped her to her feet, pulled out a bottle of horilka1 from my pocket and poured some into her mouth. She gulped it down and coughed, then picked up a handful of the clean snow and ate it. I didn’t drink any. I already had enough. Her attractive face and disheveled hair seemed angelic to me. I took her by the arm and led her toward the city. She walked obediently with a doomed look. I put a handkerchief on my torn lip and said:
“If girls jumped from the bridge because of every scoundrel, humanity would cease to exist.”
“How do you know he’s a scoundrel?” she asked timidly.
“Because only a scoundrel could abandon such a beauty.” She looked at me in surprise a
