to us, often, one doesn't see it."

"Yes, that's true," I say, rather weary of his monotonous complaining.

I try a few words of consolation, knowing that he was recently married.
"After all, no one comes bothering you in your own little corner.
There's always that. And then, after all, you're going home--your wife
is waiting for you. You're lucky----"

"I've no time; or rather, I've no strength. At nights, when I come
home I'm too tired--I'm too tired, you understand, to be happy, you
see. Every morning I think I shall be, and I'm hoping up till noon;
but at night I'm too knocked out, what with walking and rubbing for
eleven hours; and on Sundays I'm done in altogether with the week.
There's even times that I don't even wash myself when I come in. I
just stay with my hands mucky; and on Sundays when I'm cleaned up, it's
a nasty one when they say to me, 'You're looking well.'"

And while I am listening to the tragicomical recital which he retails,
like a soliloquy, without expecting replies from me--luckily, for I
should not know how to answer--I can, in fact, recall those holidays
when the face of Pétrolus is embellished by the visible marks of water.

"Apart from that," he goes on, withdrawing his chin into the gray
string of his over-large collar; "apart from that, Charlotte, she's
very good. She looks after me, and tidies the house, and it's her that
lights _our_ lamp; and she hides the books carefully away from me so's
I can't grease 'em, and my fingers make prints on 'em like criminals.
She's good, but it doesn't turn out well, same as I've told you, and
when one's unhappy everything's favorable to being unhappy."