Your father places a plate of food down on the dinner table. Stew made with lamb, carrots, potatoes... other dull ingredients. You don't pay attention. He opens the window to your home in Saint Denis, where neither of you quite fit into the lavish, posh community, and sits down next to you. "Y'alright girl? Been acting strange lately." You grumble. You don't want to speak to him right now; you're mostly thinking about going upstairs to send a letter to your lover, Florence. The prettiest, kindest girl in the world, who, against all odds, you plan to marry someday. If only society was just slightly more accepting. The Wild West in 1899 is not exactly the place for sexual inverts.