He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. ’ He frowned again. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way. I am your first, of course you feel strongly. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. Spurling. “She can’t.
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