“John went into one of 151 the bedrooms Katy Pfister for over two hours, and I think he finally lost his virginity. It was locked. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. . “No, I’d like to.
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