He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. Oh the back of her arm she found the faintest down of hair in the world. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose.
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