The period of repression was over. Worse than any man. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. And talking of every conceivable thing. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. We men are like children. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied.
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