The hunger for perfection,
for God, that had been a constant part of his existence, the longing
for peace and security, were almost unbearable. He had had a long
struggle; the devil was deeply rooted in him. He could laugh at the
broken tyranny of drugs and drink, but the passion for fine steel
cutting edges was different, and twisted into every fiber. The rage
that even yet threatened to flood him, sweeping away his painfully
erected integrity, was different too. These things had made him a
murderer.
"... not the righteous, but sinners to repentance."
He had a sudden muddled vision of another world, a world where sturdy
men gave him their hands and in reality fulfilled June Bowman's mocking
words. There the houses, the streets of his youth would have been
impossible. Ah, he was thinking of another kind of heaven; it was a hop
dream.
There was a stir below and he heard the clatter of plates. Dinner was
in preparation. "Lem!" his wife called. "Mr. Bowman wants you to go to
the butcher's."
"Call me June," he put in; adding: "Sure, Lem; the butcher's; we want a
tenderloin, cut thick. You can't get any pep on greens; we ain't
cattle."
Doret felt that he would have been infinitely happier with his own thin
fare. In a manner he got comfort from a pinch of hunger; somehow the
physical deprivation gave him a sense of purification. The other man,
purple with the meat and beer, shook out a cigarette from a paper pack.
"Always smoke caporal halves," he proclaimed.
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