“Manning,” she said, and contemplated a figure of inaggressive persistence. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. She fidgeted and looked away. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air. Anyhow, there was some pleasurable satisfaction in knowing where the quarry would be for the next three weeks. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. In a sense I don’t care. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. Without stopping to inquire into the cause of their mirth, or even to ask the names of his guests, the worthy carpenter shook hands with the one-eyed chapmen, slapped Mr. Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal.
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