Chapter Twenty-Eight
Denis couldn’t keep his eyes off the weighty inkpad on Dr Ferrand’s shiny desk. The director’s office reminded him unpleasantly of his schooldays. Denis could easily picture the school building and the faces of several friends of that time, but not himself. The large windows behind Ferrand provided a view of the gardens of the women’s section.
“I see you’re reluctant to answer me,” Ferrand said. “You don’t have to, but bear in mind that psychiatrists ask their neurotic patients such questions all the time.”
Just a minute ago, Ferrand had dryly asked how Denis’s s*x life had fared since the amputation of his arm. Denis had felt too disconcerted to feel anger or remorse; he just didn’t know what to say. He gazed over Ferrand’s shoulder at the bluish sky, in which the
