Seven fifteen the bread truck comes.

“Would you like some bread?” ask the breader.

“No thank you, not today,” I say. I don’t need any bread today. I’m going away for a while. “I’m going away for a while,” I say.

The bread truck coughs and growls and comes to a stop. Miss Helen is ready next door with her six pounds and she is holding it out ready, but the breaders do not notice her, and they stop a little short, and she’s left waiting, with her arm held out lame, and an empty linen bag dangling by her the handles of her chair. The breaders have stopped just short of Miss Helen’s drive, and have got out, and are coming this way. Miss Helen is staring.

“Good morning, Miss Helen!” I say, cheerfully. I am not cheerful, really.

“You’re going away for a while?” asks one of the breaders.

“Yes. A while. Away.”

“Won’t you need any bread?”

“No thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Not even sandwiches?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay.”

Seven sixteen the bread truck leaves.

I’m going away for a while.