207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. ‘When she lies outright, she thinks about it. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. ’ She shrugged. The Times slipped from his fingers. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness.
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