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He would argue with her about killing themselves; and explain how wicked people were; how he could see them making up lies as they passed in the street. He knew all their thoughts, he said; he knew everything. He knew the meaning of the world, he said.
But women, he thought, shutting his pocket-knife, don’t know what passion is. They don’t know the meaning of it to men. Clarissa was cold as an icicle.
His wife was crying, and he felt nothing; only each time she sobbed in this profound, this silent, the hopeless way, he descended another step into the pit.
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