She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. She didn’t realize she was until one day she has horrible cramps and she screams for me while she is on the toilet, and then she screams for her mother. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Irreton.
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