These human bits, these memories, he had picked up as he lived along and had taken them with him and made them his own, had trimmed and polished every one until its rough unpleasant edges were all nicely smoothed away and it glittered and shone like the gem that it was.

For Roger was an idealist.

And so he would have liked to do here.

What a gem could be made of Isadore with a little careful polishing.
But Deborah's way was different.

She stayed in life, lived in it close, with its sharp edges bristling.