He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. ‘Come, cry a truce. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “It’s a nice holiday. I hope she falls off the face of the planet. I love my husband. ‘Come inside at once, child. Hill again—alive. ” She saw him flinch, but he gave no sign of it in his tone. “The Chens must already be here. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer.
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