In ten years of marriage, her husband had not looked as strange to her as he did at this moment; no matter what her mood, she had never wished to recoil like this from his presence; since the day of their wedding, they had got along so well that she had come to think of him as an extension of her own body. She had never seen him as separate, or herself in the company of another, nor had she ever imagined she would one day have thoughts she could hide from him. But now, in this bedroom where she had always felt at one with her husband, she was suddenly aware that he inhabited another body. It amazed her to find herself awash with thoughts she could not share with this stranger, things she could never say. She felt like running far, far away. She wanted to be alone. She needed to be alone; she could not, despite the force of habit, find the courage to look at herself in the mirror as she stripped. She was afraid of seeing the everyday Celile, the Celile of yesterday.