It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. She indicated the captain who had retired behind the sofa. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. You tell me he didn't like the stuff.
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