“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed.
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