She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. It is no crime, none at all. White was scattered across the long stretches of pine trees and corn fields. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it.
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