" "A boy from his shop was here a short time ago. . " All day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts. People hounded him about the disappearances mercilessly for weeks after the concert, first the police, then the Becks, then people from school. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. “Who can tell?” she said. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. I did so. Wood.
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