She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. Top-side insurance people. For a moment she remained silent. His physical body was predictably paralyzed with shyness and fear of rejection, barely soothed with a series 51 of blatantly direct requests and compliments. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. I do swear.
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