It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. She shuddered as his naked body pressed against her. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. “Four,” Anna decided firmly. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Good night.
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