He filled his pipe slowly. She had started wearing the dresses he bought for her, the white and blue shift he said, “brings out the color in your eyes”. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses.
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