But it’s something, when you think about it, how many babies were brought into those places, with rats as big as cats, roaches the size of mice, splinters the size of a man’s finger, and somehow survived it. You don’t want to think about those who didn’t; and, to tell the truth, there’s always something very sad in those who did, or do.

And that baby be the best thing that ever happened to Fonny. He needs that baby. It going to give him a whole lot of courage.’

He was wearing an old black and red lumber-jacket and old grey corduroy pants. His heavy shoes were scuffed; and he smelled of fatigue.

He was an olive-skinned, curly-haired, merry-faced boy from the Bronx, about thirty-three, maybe, with big, kind of electrical black eyes, and he dug us.

She is confronting the age of sorrow. She is confronting torment.