You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. Get on with it, then. ‘Moreover, no one will believe any more that Yolande is me when they see this. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain.
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