She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. And still you interest yourself in my affairs. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. The light would betray us. She never calls herself ‘Alcide. . It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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