“It’s all the same queerness,” she said.
Peter could squint more atrociously than most people, and now, looking at Silvia, he allowed himself to contemplate the end of his nose. Silvia couldn’t stand this trick, and a nonsensical ritual had built itself up upon it.
“Oh, Peter, put your eyes back!” she cried.
“I can’t. They’ve stuck. Push them back for me.”
He shut his eyes, and Silvia stroked the lids from the nose outwards.
“They will stick some day,” she said,” and then I shall divorce you.”
Peter looked at her straight again.
“Go on about the queerness,” he said.
“Yours or mine?” she asked.
“You said they were the same.”