--Who was the letter from? he asked.

Bold hand. Marion.

--O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme.

--What are you singing?

--LA CI DAREM with J. C. Doyle, she said, and LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves
next day. Like foul flowerwater.

--Would you like the window open a little?

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:

--What time is the funeral?

--Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper.

Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled
drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a
stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.

--No: that book.

Other stocking. Her petticoat.