F. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day. I said I’d do anything. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. Heard voices. There stepped forth a tall brown man. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt. They were bathing in the stream. I’ve paid for you and helped you, and I’m going to conquer you somehow—if I have to break you to do it. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Suspicion was in his face.
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