Even his thoughts became as dull, as perfunctory, as the coarse change in his pockets. His thoughts were pale. No embarrassments, like the time his fly was unzipped and he had no underwear on. His thoughts, his situation, broke none of his mother’s precious vases. He was just lusting after his client’s wife after she had given birth to his child.
Bookle-Duck of course was there, wriggling her stupid tale. His client called him, still unsuspicious, about some contracts. Underwear from his top drawer were on his person, and his suit fly was still zipped. Ten years from now, he’d still be kicking Bookle-Duck and the baby would be in the hands of some family. He’d take his guilt to the Pacific islands. As for now, the adoption advertisement would be placed with such ease, such glib ease, and sometime later they would receive that call, so unbusiness like, so blase, looking for a white anglo-saxon newborn. Then she’d lose the weight, return from her hike in the himalayas, which he was stupid enough to believe. Bookle-Duck had too large a tongue to articulate adultery, and if he could, her husband would probably
