82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. "When it thunders, the thief becomes honest," muttered Wood. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. “Sold again,” she remarked. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. Eating him while he was at the end of a heroin binge left her sleepy and dazed. "And you will answer it frankly?" "Certainly. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray.
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