My dear Jil,
Here’s the continuation of the story:
‘And the old man looked into her eyes, like one who could see into her soul. Her naked soul tried to cover itself. He wore a tweed jacket, the fashion of the fifties. His crushed bowler hat sat on his head, his trousers baggy. She felt young, even immature, innocent… A sharp contrast to the corrugatedness of his soul. The artist called Life had turned his face into a canvass, drawn lines upon his visage. They were lines of history.
