‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Let me have a word with him, and you may take all the money. She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers. Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her.
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