“It was perhaps my fault. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. ‘I doubt it. \"I'm gonna hit the showers while I'm here, do you mind waiting a few minutes?\" \"Not at all. . Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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