― Là ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love’s Old Sweet Song .

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater.

―Would you like the window open a little?

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:

―What time is the funeral?

―Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn’t see the paper.

Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.