And then, after all, you're going home--your wife is waiting for you.

You're lucky----" "I've no time; or rather, I've no strength.

At nights, when I come home I'm too tired--I'm too tired, you understand, to be happy, you see.

Every morning I think I shall be, and I'm hoping up till noon; but at night I'm too knocked out, what with walking and rubbing for eleven hours; and on Sundays I'm done in altogether with the week.
There's even times that I don't even wash myself when I come in.

I just stay with my hands mucky; and on Sundays when I'm cleaned up, it's a nasty one when they say to me, 'You're looking well.'" And while I am listening to the tragicomical recital which he retails, like a soliloquy, without expecting replies from me--luckily, for I should not know how to answer--I can, in fact, recall those holidays when the face of Petrolus is embellished by the visible marks of water.
"Apart from that," he goes on, withdrawing his chin into the gray string of his over-large collar; "apart from that, Charlotte, she's very good.