He feared to antagonize that distinguished person. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. A millionaire and a knight, even though his money has been made in carpets, is used to being a person of interest. He donned his winter coat. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining. She discovered him sitting upon the floor beside his open trunk. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears.
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