Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. Never be downhearted. His voice now had lost its ironies. By the side of her plate was a small key. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study.
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