"Marcia is a whore. Was, is, and always will be. Sit still. I am giving you the advantage of a certain amount of background. And I am not the kind of guy who says that a girl who sells her body always sells her soul. You know it! The trouble with you isn't Marcia--it's neurotic stubbornness. Trying with all your might to make a cheesy setup turn beautiful. Chopping yourself down at the knees. Then--when you're on your knees--chopping off the stump where your manhood ought to be. And so on up--through the guts and the heart. All that's left is a crazed beezer. I had a long talk with your Marcia yesterday. If you'll try to stay in one piece, I'll tell you about it, in a sec. But--meanwhile--somebody ought to brief you on the fact that there may be only one kind of love in the folklore of the U.S.A.--but there are five thousand kinds in people. Marcia had a kind for you that didn't match your sentiments for her. Look at it that way." Then I told him about my séance with his lambent, incorrigible girl friend. He did listen. I have to say that. He listened like a man in the hands of the Gestapo trying to see if, perhaps, keeping quiet and not moving a muscle will help the pain. When I wound it up, my compassion was coming back: "I'm sick of it, Paul! Dave's sweating over you when he already has plenty to keep him busy. We've chased around for you the whole damned weekend--both of us with other things to do, and troubles of our own. Why? We think a lot of you. Because you're having the rough end of the rough time, we are, too. You were shot from worrying about the state of the world. A damned good-looking babe moved in on you and made it twice as rough. And you don't understand yourself. But the time has come to shut the book, Paul. The chapter's finished. There's no epilogue. It isn't one of my stories, boy. No happy ending. You couldn't get her back if you were the chief of police. You _could_ get her back if you were Midas--and that way you wouldn't want her. She got a big throb out of you. She was as honest as she's able to be--for a time. Her mother instinct kept her going awhile. But she was soon laying the boys in the back room even though she was doing your cooking, nights. She offered me a deal--and if that doesn't cure you, son--" I racked the brain for a conclusion--"well, go on up and buy a hunk." He didn't say anything. I suppose he sat for five minutes. His face was just--sweaty, like everybody's--and gray, and apparently relaxed. When he walked over to the window, I thought I'd won, and my nerves gave an inch or two--so I could go on living a little while longer, myself. But he leaned way down, lifted his long, slatty leg, stepped out on the terrace, and hopped up on the parapet. Sixteen stories of straight wall. I went after the God-damned fool. He turned around and sat there. "Don't come any nearer," he said. His voice was like bad brakes. So I leaned against the sill.