They
were staring at her, as the money they'd paid for admission entitled
them to stare, licking their lips over her.
He hadn't had a moment's uncertainty that it was indeed she. Couldn't
shelter himself, even for an instant, behind Jimmy Wallace's theory of
an "amazing resemblance."
The others of their world had always known Rose as a person with a good
deal of natural and quite unconscious dignity. She had never romped nor
larked before any of them, and she conveyed the impression, not of
refraining as a concession to good manners, but simply of being the sort
of person who didn't, naturally, express herself in those ways. But in
the interior privacies of their life together, she'd often shown
herself, for him, a different Rose. She'd played with him with the
abandon of a young kitten--romped and wrestled with him. And there'd
been a deliciousness about this phase of her, which resided, for him, in
the fact that it was kept for him alone.
But now, here on the stage of a cheap theater, she was parading that
exquisite thing before the world! Along in the second act, where
Sylvia's six friends come to spend the night with her and sleep out on
the roof, there was a mad lark which brought up maddening memories.
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