Ticknor

‰ЫПI knew I was not as important as Claire, so returning after the funeral I just stood around, wanting to let him know I was there ‰ЫУ standing there with everyone else rushing about. I am not good at those sorts of arrangements, pouring drinks or holding out a hand to a woman to help her from her chair; even sitting in the corner of the parlour with the men, smoking and talking in appropriate ways. I had nothing to say in the appropriate ways. I could not help out because I no longer knew the house, not as some of the others did, or what was needed, or what they might have wanted from me. Several times, though perhaps as few as one or two, he did give me a direct, tired look, but I didn‰ЫЄt know what it meant, whether it was mostly incriminating or not. I cannot go to his house. I can tell he doesn‰ЫЄt see inside me or even care to anymore.‰Ыќ

‰ЫПExhausted and near tears, I went to the mirror. I often go to the mirror when crying, to see how I might look. I wonder whether I‰ЫЄd have any sympathy for a man such as myself. Sometimes I feel I would, and it makes me cry even harder; other times I do not and it fills me with despair ‰ЫУ well, then I weep more pitifully than before. In these ways I find I am able to enjoy myself. The pure times I spend alone are rare.‰Ыќ