An excerpt from The Gioconda Smile — a short story by Aldous Huxley
Groping his way into the hall, and without waiting to look for his hat, he went out of the house, taking pains to close the front door noiselessly behind him. The clouds had blown over, and the moon was shining from a clear sky. There were puddles all along the road, and a noise of running water rose from the gutters and ditches. Mr. Hutton splashed along, not caring if he got wet.
How heart-rendingly she had sobbed! With the emotions of pity and remorse that the recollection evoked in him there was a certain resentment: why couldn’t she have played the game that he was playing, the heartless, amusing game? Yes, but he had known all the time that she wouldn’t, that she couldn’t play that game; he had known and persisted.
What had she said about passion and the elements? Something absurdly stale, but true, true. There she was, a cloud black-bosomed and charged with thunder, and he, like some absurd little Benjamin Franklin, had sent up a kite into the heart of the menace. Now he was complaining that his toy had drawn the lightning.