She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. I suppose I believe in God. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. You’re mine. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve.
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