His voice propelled her to cry even harder, so hard that she began to laugh behind her tears. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. He is the one who has said that she must go to the convent. “Let me see,” he said. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. ’ ‘A pretty tale. “Let me help you,” he begged.
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