He doesn’t know whether she’s intelligent or stupid, cheerful or melancholic, whether she’s short-tempered or the opposite, good-natured. He doesn’t understand how this girl with the round face and the greenish eyes can be a wife. They don’t cut married women’s hair in Nikopol, so he can see how wild and beautiful hers is, dark brown, like coffee. She has lovely hands with long, thin fingers and fecund hips.
