"At most she could say he was wearing that day,
he was probably still now, she thought,
a crumpled shirt and stained with sweat rings
and that his pants were verdi, glossy knee where he
pochait badly or that weighing too volatile, it fell
every time he made contact with the ground, either, thought
Norah with a slightly weary pity, he was also,
after all, become an old man neglected, indifferent
or blind to the dirt while keeping habits
a conventional elegance, dressing like it
always had white and fresh butter and never
only appearing even at the threshold of his unfinished house without
having ascended his tie in any dusty living room
he could be released in any flamboyant exhausted
blooming he might have gone. "
There. It's like that all along.