"'Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. “But I am your husband,” he said. “Compromise—and kindness. But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. “No! I want to do without that. They are not your children, they never were. But his own ferocity was less now that she was disarmed.
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