Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. I go back about once a year. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. Why, honestly enouch.
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