Sometimes he was not asleep when he appeared to be. —What was your song?——Song?— Squatting on the floor cleaning up crumbs of bark and broken leaf.—You were singing.——What? Was I?— She had filled a dented Benares brass pot with loquat branches.—For the joy of living.—She looked to see if he were making fun of her. —I didn't know.——But you never doubted it for a moment. Your family.—She did not turn to him that profile of privacy with which he was used to meeting. —Suppose not.—