In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. . ‘What now?’ ‘Now,’ she answered flatly, ‘you will please to tell me at once why you have come here. 73 < 10 > AT HOME, 1982 Lucy woke up the next morning with Shari’s slow sonorous breathing only a few feet away. “I want to show you something. ” She paused. “Lucy, that’s horrible. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse.
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