The hyoid bone in her throat flutters as if discharging some subvocal rosary.

The tailleur never mentions the words ‘Black’ or ‘Inverse’, but always says that Red wins or Red loses, and that the colour wins or the colour loses.

...I imagined...that the husband of the lady might very easily be in Russia while his wife's health might necessitate her wintering in Egypt... But my mother thinks not. My mother thinks there is not a husband at all,—that there never was a husband. In fact my mother has very strong convictions on the subject...

I am one of those melodramatic fools / Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it