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" "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. I don’t have to take this shit. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. It is simply our point of view which is altogether different. She had told Emile. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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