Very
soon when the fatter black soldier on the clock-face has only hitched
himself along a little, it will be over her head and the roving Nancy, the
sparkling Nancy, the Nancy that fell in love will be under it like a calm
body, never to rise or run or be kissed with light seeking kisses on the
soft of her throat again. There will only be a dignified Nancy, a sensible
Nancy, a Nancy going to Paris to study and be successful, a Nancy who,
sooner or later will marry "Some good, clean man."
A little tinkle of chimes from the clock. Six minutes more. The Nancy that
was stands on tiptoe, every eager and tameless bit of her hoping, hoping.
If mother weren't there that Nancy would have been at the telephone an
hour ago in spite of young people's pride and old people's self-respect
and all the thousand and one knife-faced fetishes that all the correct and
common-sensible people hug close and worship because they hurt.
She can see the train sliding out of the station. Ollie is in it and his
face is stiff with surprise and unforgiveness like the face of some
horrible stranger you went up to and spoke to by mistake, thinking he was
your friend.
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