He listened like a man in the hands of the Gestapo trying to see if,
perhaps, keeping quiet and not moving a muscle will help the pain.
When I wound it up, my compassion was coming back:
"I'm sick of it, Paul! Dave's sweating over you when he already has
plenty to keep him busy. We've chased around for you the whole damned
weekend--both of us with other things to do, and troubles of our own.
Why? We think a lot of you. Because you're having the rough end of the
rough time, we are, too. You were shot from worrying about the state of
the world. A damned good-looking babe moved in on you and made it twice
as rough. And you don't understand yourself. But the time has come to
shut the book, Paul. The chapter's finished. There's no epilogue. It
isn't one of my stories, boy. No happy ending. You couldn't get her
back if you were the chief of police. You _could_ get her back if you
were Midas--and that way you wouldn't want her. She got a big throb out
of you. She was as honest as she's able to be--for a time. Her mother
instinct kept her going awhile. But she was soon laying the boys in the
back room even though she was doing your cooking, nights. She offered
me a deal--and if that doesn't cure you, son--" I racked the brain for
a conclusion--"well, go on up and buy a hunk."
He didn't say anything.