One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. E. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. His eyes caught at hers with passionate inquiries. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade.
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