We men are like children. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. m. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. I have—run away. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. She refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste.
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