I suspect he has been at work upon those he has on. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “They’re all doing great. I seek chaos, but not out of choice. ‘No one would credit that you are three years older than I. ” He sat for a moment, absorbing. It pained Lucy to see Mike eating so sparely. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Beyond that everything was nebulous. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner.
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