” She smiled at him. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinary questions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he always rose when she entered or left the room. His last actions were futile. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows.
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