She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. ’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. It gave him plenty of time to obsess over his random crushes, which worried her. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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