Not a breath was drawn. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. In the beginning was afraid; but after the first several cases, I had only pity. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. It’s all outside the world of your experience. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this.
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