Certain desolate…..
Area of land
A fantastic farm, where ashes grow….
Like wheat into grotesque gardens where ash-grey men who move dimly already crumbling
The grey land….
And spasms of bleak dust
He was a blonde spiritless…..
Man anaemic and faintly handsome […]a damp gleam of hope sprang into his eyes
She was in the middle thirties….
She carried her flesh sensuously as some women can
There was an immediate perceptible vitality…
About her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering
Walking through…
Her husband as if he were a ghost
Mrs Wilson sat discreetly in another car ….
Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those east eggers who might be on the train
At the news stand she….
Bought a copy of town tattle and a moving picture magazine and in the station drug store some cold cream and a small flask of perfume
I want…
To get one of those dogs
Warm and soft…
Almost pastoral on a summer Sunday afternoon
The cab stopped at…
One slice in along white cake of apartment houses
Mrs Wilson had changed…
[…] cream coloured chiffon […] with the influence of the dress […]the intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive hauteur
Her laughter her gestures, her assertions became…
More violently affected moment by moment and she expanded the room grew smaller around her until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy creaking pivot
I thought I knew something about breeding…
But he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe
He borrowed somebody’s best suit…
To get married in and never even told me about it
I became entangled in….
Some wild strident argument which pulled me back as if with ropes to my chair
I was within and without simultaneously…
Enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life
Making a short deft…
Movement tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand
I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up…
Between the sheets clad in his underwear with a great portfolio in his hands
