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“It was poison—why not?” she answered. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. There stepped forth a tall brown man. A marriage in the house proved to be exciting but extremely disorganizing. It is one of God’s laws that a woman may defend her honour, even with the shedding of blood. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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