No Flying From Fate

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I was glad it was raining. Glad, because it gave me a reason for staring out of the window in my office and appear preoccupied, while the poor lady wept her heart out. She was crying because I had just given her proof of her husband's affair; the photographs lying on the table, of her husband and her best friend, in various compromising positions. The torrent of rain was subsiding. I prepared myself for the uncomfortable task of saying something reassuring. This always filled me with terror. I began with a feeble attempt to pacify her. 'Mrs Singh, would you like some water.