On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. A pig, yes, a little. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. He looked just as Julian had the night she had first met him outside the Joliet Laundromat. “Thank God,” he exclaimed.
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