’ ‘Ah, but I have a special reason for doing so this time. You see, it's like this. The Iron Bar. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. Of course. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. That is good. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Section 3.
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