She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. “Men’s waists are neither here nor there; A man scores always, everywhere. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. Old pupil. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. ’ ‘Je m’en moque.
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