“What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. I got myself locked up to cool off. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. She was by his side. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. It’s wrong in the eyes of most people.
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