At some point my flesh had ceased to be of much significance to me, and it was my bones of which I was always conscious. My bones were cold and they ached, perhaps to remind me that before too long they would be all that remained of me: the neglected skeleton’s revenge, as the pampered flesh decayed away. I was reflecting thus gloomily because I was unfairly enraged with Monica, and spite and unhappiness frequently go together. I could not reach over and slap her for bringing Lili back into my life, but I could break a less stringent social taboo and embarrass her with talk of my age and impending death. I could remark reflectively, ‘I suppose, after all, we are all only skeletons in our own cupboards, waiting to be revealed.’ That’d serve her right, I thought, but I kept silent. Such subtle aggression would be wasted on Monica. She would respond with some bromide and make me even crosser. Years had gone by since I’d been able to say things as they came into my head, knowing that I should be understood. The people who would have understood had all gone away. Sometimes I made Syl laugh but he was my son and it was different. I had missed those who had been my friends for so long now that deprivation had become my element. I had adapted like some Darwinian prototype to loneliness and now could never revert to what I had been. I was sorry for myself; but I would have died rather than let anybody know. Dislike was preferable to pity since people mostly dislike from a distance. They seldom bother to come to you in order to dislike you, whereas pity brings them thronging, eager to express this gratifying emotion and gain whatever is to be gained of credit—in time and eternity. I had not, of course, always been so cynical.