How firm a foundation ye say-aints of the Lord ...
Everything was spinning again and he was saying over and over: must pull myself together, pull myself together, for that face is my face and my father's voice is my voice. I am my father.
"All right, mister, closing time." There was a heavy hand on his shoulder.
He reeled out into the street, his hand over his face to wipe away the memory of the dilated pupils of his eyes in the looking-glass. The air was cold and harsh in his nostrils, against his temples. He walked slowly through streets neatly carpeted with snow that made tiny whirlwinds at corners in the clear gusts of wind. His thoughts clicked with mechanical precision. I'm sober now, I've got to decide. Up towards Beacon Hill. Something always goes mad in me when I go to Frank Locke's. Mustn't go again. Again! How silly, as if there were going to be any agains. Now in me my father'll be dead. Mustn't hurry. Pleasant to stroll about a town the last night before going away; bought your ticket and everything. Where? Want ad: Respectable house offers agreeably furnished room suitable for suicide... How fine; to be cool like this. This is the secret at last. Never been happier in my life. Or am I just hideously drunk?
Slippery down this hill. The bridge the subway goes over, that's it. He felt for his watch. Gone, of course; pawned a thousand years ago to sleep with Ellen of Troy.
It was very quiet over the river. The snow lay straight on the ledges of the bridge. The lights of the esplanade flickered like stars through the clear, bleak night and cast little tremulous sparks over the lacquered surface of the water.
The wind had blown all tracks out of the snow. Wenny cleared off the rail behind one of the turrets and sat looking at the water.
Perhaps lovers have met here. No, the cops'ld be after them. No place for love in the city of Boston; place for death though.
He pulled the little revolver out of his back pocket and held it at arms' length.
I have nerve for this, why not for the rest; for shipping on a windjammer, for walking with Nan down streets unaccountable and dark between blind brick walls that tremble with the roar of engines, for her seagrey eyes in my eyes, her lips, the sweetish fatty smell of Ellen's lips. Maybe death's all that, sinking into the body of a dark woman, with proud cold thighs, hair black, black. I wonder if it shoots.