Eleven stone! He had not varied two pounds in twenty years.

What age was she?
Nearly thirty-seven--not too old to have a child--not at all! Thirty-seven on the ninth of next month.

He remembered her birthday well--he had always observed it religiously, even that last birthday so soon before she left him, when he was almost certain she was faithless.
Four birthdays in his house.

He had looked forward to them, because his gifts had meant a semblance of gratitude, a certain attempt at warmth.
Except, indeed, that last birthday--which had tempted him to be too religious! And he shied away in thought.

Memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense.