The Great Gatsby

Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and
Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement.
Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he
sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars
that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably
laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not
his own.

So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson
wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious
glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain
times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some
workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis
took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he
didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside
again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation
because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in
the garage.

“Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty
little coward!”

A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and