you seem to have known before in some strange, mysterious existence—before you were divorced, perhaps, or when you were in jail, or living in Chicago? It gives you eerie chilblains up and down your spine, as if some one were walking on your cradle. Well, Angie had such a feeling, that night, when she looked at the gentleman in green burlap opposite her. He was thinking, and winking, and drinking mucilage through a quill.
At first she thought she was attracted to him merely because he was throwing kisses at her—kisses and spaghetti—you know how that always intrigues one—but later she was sure that either he was her Affinity, or else she owed him money—perhaps both. It gave her a sweetly uncomfortable embarrassment, like that of an Episcopal clergyman who finds his pockets filled with molasses.
When, however, at 3 a. m., he followed her out of the Café, wildly beckoning, she knew he was after her. The very way he grabbed her arm told her that he was one who would not hesitate to lay hands upon her if he dared.
She turned upon him like a fish hook, like
