Valentine did not have much time to realize that he would never be able to forget the scene from the separery and the way he had been insulted; about which things he had not spoken to his wife, and less so to his two children, and in the evening, when his property returned, carrying his figures in a black leather jacket, he could no longer find himself under the cover or the depth of peace that she liked to isolate and lose.
Now he was vulnerable to the incidents of family life that were, in fact, the resources of their simplest expression; her wife received it with care and grace, like a doctor who wanted to examine the appearance of her favorite patient.
Valentin loved his wife. When she looked at her, she sipped her eyes, though she rarely complimented him or said sweetheart when she was still in front of her; she liked to cling to her silently, to overwhelm her with royal gifts, to fulfill all her desires, even before she had time to tell them; and when they were lonely, they showed a passionate old coconut infatuation that twenty-five years of marriage had not seduced.
Almost never talked to his wife about everyday worries, just as he did not even talk about small expenses. On the contrary, he was advising him at the right time about certain big projects. The biggest blows he had received from his life had kept him for him, away from everyone, before blowing anyone up or even the slightest talk about them.
Besides, he was convinced that this innate lack of predisposition to confidentiality, which made him very reserved, was one of the golden keys of his personal success.