It is here that he stops short and knows, with a sick newness, almost as though it were for the first time: Jim is dead. Is dead. He stands quite still, silent, or at most uttering a brief animal grunt, as he waits for the spasm to pass. Then he walks into the kitchen. These morning spasms are too painful to be treated sentimentally. After them, he feels relief, merely. It is like getting over a bad attack of cramp.
