When the clouds moved away, the gray of the pebbles rose up to her head, the green of the moisture became darker, the marks of rain appearing right under her eyes were more visible. He noticed the shadow of her face bent on the ground, the dark corners the sun had never reached. He touched her breasts, they were warm, although they had lived for centuries without love. And he imagined why the sculptor had made her that way, looking down, the centuries reduced to pebbles, to the leaves running in the autumn and at the men’s feet. She had never seen a man’s face; had never had a lover.