She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. “Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. That is what I must do. She slipped out the window, jumping to the ground from the second story with very little sound. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes.
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