Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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