The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. “My first love was all blundering,” said Capes. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. “I have learned that. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes.
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