It is the only way. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. Sheppard. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. Sheppard had been interred. “Why not? It might amuse me. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. .
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