“The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. Sorry. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating.
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