FATE STABS March came to Kenny and found his studio with its haunting odor of coffee and cigarettes, his brushes, his head and his heart, furiously at work.

He was giving himself up to love and labor with a Celtic intensity that Garry found appalling.

He planned endlessly to one purpose: Joan's happiness, Joan's pleasure, Joan's future with him.
The memory of the ragged money laid aside for Don he dismissed with a wry smile, gritting his teeth.

What mattered in the face of the splendid fact that he was so joyously, so recklessly, so absurdly happy?
His life, with its deadly singleness of purpose, should have been simple.

It attained a complexity at times at which he marveled.