Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing. But you don’t particularly want to do the job that sets you free—for its own sake. You might be able to use the picture some day. Yet I think that he will do it. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made.
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