It was a dead calm. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. She told the porter to take it to the booking-office, and it was only after a disconcerting moment or so that she found she ought to have directed him to go to the cloak-room. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. The significance of the kiss was still obscure to her, though she had frequently encountered the word and act in the Old and New Testaments and latterly in novels. When I heard about Larry I was going 159 to call you, I was, but, well, there is no excuse, is there? I acted like I was afraid of you, afraid that I liked you, so I ignored you like a coward. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. “I did,” Anna answered.
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