He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. “Not at all. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinary questions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he always rose when she entered or left the room.
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