Chapter Thirty-FiveWesley Addison was in his room, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, looking out of the one small window. He had taken a long rest that afternoon, having fallen asleep while reading a monograph on dialects of southwest France.
He did not like to nap. Naps made him feel groggy afterwards which made him uneasy.
So it was groggily that he sat in the uncomfortable chair, looking out at the meadow and thinking about his wife. Seven years is a long time, but he had had moments, in the Dordogne, of feeling as though she had only stepped into the next room. Moments when the sound of her voice and the feel of her soft skin was so vivid he nearly spoke out loud to her.
She had understood him, his wife. She had been able to laugh at him in a way that helped him to laugh at himself
