“It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. ‘That is imbecile. His arms released from his 68 sides, he lifted them around her in a light embrace. This I have sworn to do—this I will do. It’s John. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted. She took some shirts, underwear, shoes, a duffel bag, and his wallet to make it look like he had gone a-traveling. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. For heaven’s sake, give him some Madeira or something, Gerald! Anything to calm him down. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true.
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