’ ‘Alone, miss?’ ‘Certainly alone. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. She wrapped a leg around him. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. It doesn’t seem to matter.
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