. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. He rested on one elbow. “I don’t see, Mollie,” he remarked, taking a cigar from the box on the table as his sister and daughter rose, “why you and Vee shouldn’t discuss this little affair —whatever it is—without bothering me. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true.
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