None presented themselves to save him from that return. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. No matter. But it was only six-thirty. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. “Call it warning, if you like. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom.
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