Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. “I wish you didn’t. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget. It was instantly answered by the deep note of St.
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