She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. “The fellow seems to know your name, Miss Pellissier, and that you have lived in Paris. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. You are not my husband. Funk! I’ll see it out.
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