"How old do you think I am?"
"I don't know."
"Guess anything."
"Thirty-four ... thirty-three ... thirty."
On looking at her closely a few seconds, it seemed to me she was probably forty.
"Fifty-two, my dear!" To convince me of her age she stuck her finger under a slab of hair waved and dyed red and actually exposed an abundance of fading white hair.
Her face was no bigger than a fist, with cheeks like baked apples. Her shrewd naked eyes pried about. She came farther into the room and perched lightly on one of my rickety pieces of furniture, balancing it with her body. Then she began to unfold the story of her life, rummaging, unpacking, digging it up by huge armfuls: her husband, her lover, and then another, a painter she adored. The first one came back.... Love, adventures.... So it is possible to speak about your love and adventures?
Before leaving me—I was quite dazed; which must have been evident—lowering her voice a little:
"He is so good.... I myself am not crazy about him, but he loves me so...."
"He?"