She fled. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. “I suppose delusions are not uncommon to patients in his condition. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. I cannot go on.
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