She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. They unloaded Michelle’s sleeping parents who had been propped up in the back seat, necks craned against each other. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed.
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