When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. “You are making your dress?” “Such as it is. Mr. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. His voice now had lost its ironies. He got off at Canal, and she exited behind the crowd. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing.
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