—But I have learned something in all these years? She stopped the rush of her amazement.—Be still. Just wait.
They were not bothered by her. Their knowing each other wove a glutinous web through the room, and she held in it: her stirring could not have torn it, she was tight. It was a gross warm knowing: no subtle brain-fabric ... bowel-strong and sure. Fanny felt her shoulders pressed together, her head high and sheer, in this viscous tissue of their being together.
Mr. Mark cleared a lamp and a pile of magazines from the table. Lucy came in, brought glasses which she placed. Mr. Mark with ceremonial noise uncorked three bottles of red wine and stood them beside the glasses. The talk was slow and thick: the wine diluting it, freeing it, making it run faster....
“You don’t drink?” Mr. Mark stood over Fanny. She smiled up, full of the incongruous sense of smiling not at a man but at some official structure....
“I’m afraid—my Doctor——“
“Mrs. Luve is not quite well yet, you know, Mark,” said Clara.
All eyes turned upon Fanny: Mr. Mark’s wilfully considerate, Tessie’s hurt and afraid blazing a partnership she had no mind of, Susan’s in a twinging message that was somehow sweet, Mangel’s soft because they were always soft.
Fanny felt the hard stare of Statt ... empty like a stone.
“O well—do give me a glass.”
She sipped.