greeting in a glance of solicitude that saw him tired and hungry. Any demonstration of affection from her would have seemed hypocritical. Cooney said “That ’ll stick to yer ribs,” as she put a steaming plate of chowder before Barney. He replied “Sure, Mike,” and grinned.
It was a chowder as thick as an Irish stew—a savory suttee of indistinguishable vegetables that had been immolated at the obsequies of the clam, and now, in the ascending steam, gave up their essential souls to assist his translation into glory. Like an aromatic music, it soothed Barney with a vague strengthening of spirit that was at once insatiable and contented. He opened his moist lips to the first spoonful, and it sank to the seat of a satisfaction that was too deep to be lifted even by a sigh. He hunched himself over that seductive distillation, drinking a steady stream of spoonfuls, gazing into it hypnotically, breathing it, brooding on it, lost in it. The conversation went on above his devotional, bowed head.
