His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. She liked to do it for Cathy Beck, so that she could relax after waitressing all day at the Big Apple with a homemade meal. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate.
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