“Heavens!” she exclaimed. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. “I’ll try to stop by. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. “Mr. ’ ‘And I love the way you call me imbecile,’ finished Gerald. "I am very wicked," she said. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals.
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