She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. “I heard nothing,” he declared, “and my ears are good. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger.
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