It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. The showers of Second Period Physical Education class became another front on the battleground. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. He had grabbed her in the stream, embracing her naked body tightly, running his hands over her breasts and clutching her buttocks.
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