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. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. I've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him. ‘That is good,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘for I was compelled on Saturday to abandon the chase.
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