“I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. “I have to go out. She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation. ’ Jack blinked at her. I mean my cut-offs and boots.
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