She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. It was painful to want him so much. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. She further suspected that he might find a servant to dally with in the meantime, if he had not already. It does not work, I still suffer madness.
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