\" 49 She greeted him as he scanned her from head to toe, absorbing the lines of her figure as he was doing systematically with every other female in the parking lot. We shall never have an heir, you and I! My family is crumbling; all of my brothers are dead. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. She had expected sympathetic admiration, but instead the whole Widgett family, except Teddy, expressed a common dismay. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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