At half past one Dr. Charles Bolton flipped off his electronic typewriter and tamped together the pages of manuscript that lay on his desk. His arthritic left knee cracked as he got up to turn off the air conditioner. When he opened the door of the study, the stale warm air in the back hall—it smelled like heated cardboard—made him pause on the threshold. But even the unseasonable temperature—85 degrees in late September—could not justify retreat. His article on Hawthorne's treatment of darkness had reached its crux, and if he were to view the precious manuscript that his friend Roger Frampton had promised to exhume, he would have to present himself at the Boston Athenaeum at half past three.

In the kitchen his wife was attacking a bowlful of raw carrots and celery with vicious strokes of the chopper. Margaret Bolton did not welcome what she called "rattle-pated chatter" during culinary chores, and since the kitchen had no air conditioner, her mood made it wiser to leave her undisturbed. Professor Bolton tiptoed in with a plate, on which he cobbled together a cold snack from the leftover shelf of the refrigerator. He punched on the burner under the coffee pot and took his plate to the kitchen table.

The rhythm of chopping slowed, then halted. Margaret's forehead was beaded with sweat, "What time is it, Charles?"