Book: Death of a citizen

I moved to Beth, and she looked, not smiling, not saying a word. The light fell softly on her upturned face. There is something charming in a woman after a party, when she, so to speak, has already been run in, no longer looks or smells like a brand new car in a window. The nose gleams a little, scattered hair can be stroked, and painted lips can be kissed; the dress begins to correspond to the outlines of the body, and not to the feverish intention of the dressmaker. And, it can be assumed, the woman again feels like a woman, and not an embarrassed piece of art.