He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. She seemed tense when not playing, he noted, more so than she had during the first two pieces. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. “How would you prevent it?” she asked. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. "Going to befuddle himself between now and dinner," was the comment of Prudence. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there.
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