“Hainault, Celeste’s friend. Were it not for your voice, I don't think I should know you. What would you? I cannot fight them all. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Yet he stays. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. “I can’t. Do not disquiet yourself. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. ” He sighed. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. Foolish compliments were tossed about like confetti.
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