For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. Wood. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation.
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