Her face, turned to him now,was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it.It was not the hysterical light of electricity but—what? Butthe strangely comfortable and rare and gently flatteringlight of the candle
“Are youhappy?” she said.
“Faber?”“Yes?”“I’m not thinking. I’m just doing like I’m told, likealways. You said get the money and I got it. I didn’t reallythink of it myself. When do I start working things out onmy own?”
“Am I what?”“Happy! Of all the nonsense.”What does she think? I’m not?
They were like amonstrous crystal chandelier tinkling in a thousand chimes,he saw their Cheshire cat smiles burning through the wallsof the house, and now they were screaming at each otherabove the din.
His wife stretched on the bed, uncovered andcold, like a body displayed on the lid of a tomb, her eyesfixed to the ceiling by invisible threads of steel,immovable. And in her ears the little Seashells, thethimble radios tamped tight, and an electronic ocean
Thethought had been with him many times recently but now heremembered how it was that day in the city park when hehad seen that old man in the black suit hide something,quickly, in his coat.