” She stopped short, full of things un-said. The longest I can go is about three months, but I try and eat once a month. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us.
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