The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

addressed; but Honda could not do without her.
However frequently he might complain, there was
dust on the parlor shelves. The master of flowerarranging
who came for a weekly lesson also spoke
of it.
The maids would invite errand boys in for cups of
tea, and the whiskey he valued so highly was being
drunk up by he did not know whom. Occasionally he
would catch a burst of insane laughter from far down a
hallway.
His ear branded by the housekeeper’s morning
courtesies, he would have trouble bringing himself to
order breakfast, and the sticky clinging of feet to the
mats in the corridor as the two maids opened the
shutters irritated him indescribably. The hot-water
faucets were forever getting stopped up, and an
empty toothpaste tube was never replaced until he
ordered it to be. The housekeeper kept a good
enough watch on his laundry and cleaning, but it took
a laundry tag scratching at his neck to tell him that that
was the case. His shoes were polished but the sand
was carefully preserved within, the catch on his
umbrella was left unrepaired. He had been unaware
of such details while Rié lived.
The smallest tear or scratch and an article was
discarded. There were unpleasant scenes.