” Michelle sat in a yogi’s posture on the cold plywood, her eyes closed as if meditating. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone. I have no intention of allowing you to depart in a hurry. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her.
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