At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. ‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand. You were never married at all. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. She had told him, point blank, that since the Church had neither annulled the first marriage nor sanctified the second one, she was not his wife.
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