That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. ‘Seems to me like you know just about as much as me. I figured it would hurt your feelings if you knew I still talked to him, so I kept my mouth shut. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation.
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