Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. ” She said. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue.
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