The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Occasionally she would be missing a sock or a bra, so she took to storing those things in her gym locker. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand.
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