its the idea that quietness blankets a hidden storm that supposedly soothes--hence "the defense."

'this was his first impression when he saw her, when he noticed with surprise that he was actually talking to her. it irked him a little that she was not quite as good-looking as she might have been, judging by odd dreamy signs strewn about his past...she replied and added many similar words--the poor relations of real words--and how many there are spoken hurriedly and temporarily fill the void. Employing such words and feeling their petty vapidity, she asked him...he gave no answer and turned away and she felt so embarrased that she began to reel off a list of all the meterological indications for yesterday, today and tomorrow. he continued silent and she also fell silent, and then she began to rummage in her handbag, searching agonizingly for a topic and finding only a broken comb. "eighteen years, three months and four days." for her this was an exquisite relief, and further more she was somehow flattered by the elaborate circumstantiality of his reply. subsequently, however, she began to grow a little annoyed that he in his turn never asked any questions, taking her, as it were, for granted.

"that's not a real person," continued her mother in angry perplexity. "what is he? certainly not a real person. he's god knows what. a bolshevik, just a bolshevik. i sat there like an idiot. and his small talk...his cuffs are quite soiled, by the way. did you notice? soiled and frayed." "what kind of small talk?" she asked, smiling from beneath lowered brows. "yes madame, no madame...i asked him--to say something--if it was long since he had left russia. he simply was silent. then he remarked about you that you were like cooling beverages. cooling beverages!!' -n.

imagine that! i tire of it. yet those cooling beverages.