CHAPTER XXII. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. “Why should it matter?” he said. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork.
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