Sunday Night

The woods girl Crissie appeared at least so merciful that her penal expedition she carried out not until the night from Sunday into Monday, at exactly twelve thirty five. 

When with a serious and sour face she came into the hall, Sokal had been playing I’M CONFESSIN’. 

He stopped in the middle of the measure, precisely took apart and put in his pockets his clarinet, bowed and recited: “Over, the music’s over, we’re all going to the factory. Hopefully until tomorrow,” after which he went up to the woods girl wife of his, kissed her subtly on both sides of her neck, took a step back and put out his hands with the gesture of somebody being handcuffed. 

It was all played out brilliantly and the modest hall rewarded it with applause, but by this time he was already getting into the giant car, a taxi-limousine HUDSON 1929, where behind the wheel sat a secretive two metered driver.