When Gerda had finished brushing her hair and had tied it with a thin blue ribbon⁠—he had long since remarked that this was one of the few personal peculiarities she never deviated from⁠—she seemed inclined to loiter awhile before coming to bed. She closed the window at the top, opened it at the bottom, and, drawing a chair close to the sill, sat down there, leaning one of her arms on the woodwork.

It was odd how one single gross image annoyed his mind to the exclusion of all others. This was the image of Weevil in his brown suit, with most of the buttons tightly buttoned, making love to her in that white, high-throated nightgown! Of course, it couldn’t have been in the nightgown⁠ ⁠… but still he must have⁠ ⁠… and his brown suit had so many hard, impudent, shiny, cock-crowing buttons!