“Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out. “I don’t know. ” “You are separated from your wife?” “Yes, but do you know how?” “Not exactly. It was a letter. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval.
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