Once or twice at the start he had stirred, the rickety chair creaking under his weight. Then, slouched against its back, he had settled into absolute stillness. To anyone not seeing him, it might have seemed that the girl was talking to herself, pauses that she made for comment passed in silence, questions she now and then put remained unanswered. Peering at him she made him out, a brooding mass, his chin sunk into his collar, his hands clasped over his waist, his eyes fixed on the floor.
When she was done he stayed thus for a moment apparently so buried in thought that he could not rouse himself.
"Well," she said, surprised at his silence, "isn't it true what I said?
Hasn't fate rounded things up for him?"
The chair creaked as he moved, heavily as if with an effort. He laid his hands on the arms and drew himself forward.
"Yes," he muttered, "it sounds pretty straight."
"Would anything you could do beat that?"
He sat humped together looking at the floor, his powerful, gnarled hands gripping at the chair arms. She could see the top of his head with a bald place showing through the thick, low-lying grizzle of hair.
"Nup," he said, "I guess not."
He heaved himself up and walked across the room to the window.
"It's as hot as hell in here," he growled as he fumbled at the sash.