He had looked at it before without comprehension. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. I am not afraid that you may try to make love to me. Life is morality—life is adventure. . He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. Silk. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. .
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