They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. “What else did Michelle say?” “She said that the guy was all broken up about it, that he had another woman on the side or something. ” Anna nodded.
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