I had letters to write, yet my handwriting wandered about on the page, no longer obedient to my intentions. I saw this as an omen, prelude to a larger disintegration that might already be under way. When I looked in the mirror my reflection showed a creature with dull eyes and a pursed mouth. I was hungry for sleep yet was unwilling to enter the bedroom. I had stripped the bed but not yet remade it. I spent the nights in an armchair and thought I might do so until such time as I was able to behave normally. I trusted in the natural order of things to restore something like instinct and appetite. I had no idea how long this process would take. And yet I behaved efficiently, or efficiently enough, felt a moment of relief after the undertaker's men—subdued tactful creatures —had left, felt able to refuse the sedatives the doctor offered me. Miss Thompson, also tactful, said she would contact Digby's business associates as soon as I gave her a date for the funeral.
