“I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note. You don't know what you have got; I do. We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. She liked to cook even though normal food was not nourishing to her. But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do.
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