a piece of sewing silk when a man tries to thread a needle. But in her heart, she was already crying “Kamerad!” Already she could see their marriage certificate framed in a decoration of dropsical cupids, and her name spelled wrong . . . she could hear herself replying, “You bet I will!” . . . She closed her eyes with both hands. . . . Perhaps . . . Perhaps, to their happy Hoboken home, with a live linoleum in the kitchen, and quartered oak carpets, Little Children might come to bless them—and have mumps —and pour hot chocolate into the grand piano . . . perhaps . . . per . . .
“Fly with me!”
Then it was true—true! Every girl who has ever been abducted or has been to the movies, knows that delicious alarm. It is much like bathing in champagne for the first time; one doesn’t know whether one will be drunk, or drowned. One is aware only of the expense. So Angie struggled, and was struggled at . . . until a red table cloth was thrown over her head, and she was intoxified by love. Then all was dark—as dark as the inside of a lead pencil.
