“Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses.
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