“Look after her! Why not? But you have done it all your life. She has even found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. “Do you see why you cannot survive in the world without me? The world is full of mundane things, Lucia, but it is also full of terrible things. When anybody is natural, these days, we dub them queer. There are way-stations—even terminals. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery.
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