As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. He knew she was out there, he could feel it. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. You make a game with me, imbecile. "Remember; we must keep the young fellow's thoughts away from himself.
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