“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. But a biddable girl. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. She thought me— filthy. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. He only laughed his defiance. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. We have to hang about in the interval.
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