The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. It took her only two towns away, near the Arby’s where Mike worked. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. You are doing your best to break our friendship. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. God is a jealous God, and He turned upon me relentlessly.
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