What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. “What did it matter?” she cried. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Larry kept digging heartily into his spaghetti, not intrigued in the slightest. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow.
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