It was just that spot, while tugging at his collar, that Albert Penny stooped to kiss.
"Little wife," he said.
"Ugh!" she felt.
"Poor little wife, it was ninety-four and a half at six-thirty-eight this morning."
His capacity for accuracy could madden her.
He computed life in the minutiae of fractions, reckoning in terms of the halfpenny, the half minute, the half degree.
She sat now, laying pleats in the pink negligée where it flowed over her knees, a half smile forced out on her lips.
"Well, Albert," she said, wanting to keep her voice lifted, "I guess we're in it, aren't we? Up to our necks."
"In what?"
"Marriage."