The First Word to the Phone, Not the White Hand Smuggling Her Mobile

It must be juliet, trailing in one hand, her overnight wheely bag, the other clamped to a mobile. And why not? Husband, probably in paris already, or wherever. Except his disappointment exists and is, frankly, scandalous, even to him. Therefore he pretends he is nothing. He steerd her into the bar of the booking office and ran to her bloody miracle, empty corner table,. without another word spoken in their background.