“Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Sebastian, too, seemed to be immune, even though cats, dogs, and beasts of the suffered just as the humans did: blackening and dying, their eyes rolling, their bodies covered with bald buboes. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. “I—I shall be all right directly. As the palm bears nuts perennially, there were always coconut-laden proas making the beach.
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