Ellwood sat down behind the headstone and ran his fingers through the blades of grass. He did not see colours the way he used to. He knew that the grass must be a vibrant, aching green, but it did not seem so to him. More vivid were his memories of Gaunt’s strangely feminine hands, which Ellwood had always thought better suited to piano playing than to boxing. It was as if Ellwood hovered in some unreal place where the living faded and the dead took form, and all the world was vague.
