“And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. The thought of beauty became an obsession. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She makes catty comments about you to her friends if you are within hearing distance—that’s her thing—then if you are brave enough to confront her, she just denies it all and laughs at you. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go.
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