Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. She drank it obediently. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere.
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