Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. Better even than these. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out.
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