At the age of thirty-two Henry Jones awoke one brilliant summer morning with the sudden realization that the soul in him was starving. He lay quiet, staring idly at the white ceiling above the bed, his mind groping dully with this abrupt enlightenment. After a moment of mental confusion--for the enormity of the conception stirred him profoundly--he raised himself upon one elbow in bed and looked at his wife who lay sleeping beside him. He had always thought her pretty in a quiet, unobtrusive sort of way. He did not remember ever having noticed before the wrinkles that were beginning to show around her eyes, but he could see them there now, plainly. And her neck seemed very thin and stringy,…
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