The workman rose. “‘Good,’ you said, didn’t you? Good people?”
“Yes.”
The workman’s wife drew at his arm. “There, don’t get arguin’ with strangers. Come on!” The workman was drawn away....
A clock struck twelve. Late—299 got up and left the Gardens. Walking between small houses, he rang at the side entrance of a little shop.
“If your father’s still blind—I’ve come to read to him again.”
“Please, sir, he’ll always be.”
“So I supposed.”
On a horsehair sofa, below the dyed-red plumes of pampas grass, a short and stocky man was sitting, whittling at a wooden figure. He sniffed, and turned his sightless eyes towards his visitor; his square face in every line and bump seemed saying: ‘You don’t down me.’
“What are you making?” said Late—299.