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Her eyes noted it mercilessly. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. Relief flooded her. “So, since when does a grown man have to sneak behind the Laundromat to smoke a cigarette?” She asked 115 him. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. It was not your fault you failed. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. ‘You are mad, if you think he will give you a sou. But it is not your name. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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