You didn't do
things, anyway. They got done for you--and to you, by a blind force that
masqueraded as your own will. The things she and Rodney had been saying
to each other hadn't been the things they'd wanted to say. They'd been
things wrung out between the rollers of a situation they hadn't produced
and couldn't control.
What were they, the pair of them, but chips floating down the current;
thrown together by one casual eddy, and parted by another! Half an hour
ago, longing for each other unspeakably, they had been within hand's
reach. Now, thanks to a few meaningless words, arguments, ideas--what
was the good of ideas and words? Why couldn't they be like
animals?--they were parted and she was clutching as a sole tangible
memento of him, a rolled-up newspaper that she loved because she'd seen
his strong lean hands gripping it.
She unrolled it and pressed it against her face, then laid it on her
knee and smoothed out its rumpled folds and stroked it.
When Dolly came in a half-hour later, or so, to put on her other suit
preparatory to the matinee, Rose opened up the paper and pretended to
read.
Pages:
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786