My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. It presented a cleanshaven face with a large Corinthian nose, hair tremendously waving off the forehead and more chin and neck than is good for a man.
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