This is simply a chapter of coincidences. She unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. But pathologically, he is still on the edge.
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