this feeling of enmity that lurks in the air when people forget you and go to sleep. Although she couldn’t put it into words....

10. “Another drink, sweet thing?”

“I guess so.”

“Sure, just another little one now.”

She isn’t thinking at all now. If she were she’d probably suggest going in, for it is late and she wants to dance. But it doesn’t seem late; it doesn’t seem as though time is going on at all. She isn’t thinking. She doesn’t start to think even when you kiss her more enthusiastically and not so lazily. This must be the way a plant feels on a hot summer day when it hasn’t anything to do but grow. Not happy; not sad.

It is only when she realized at last that you are growing importunate that she stirs herself and protests. She isn’t sure what to say; the protest is more a matter of habit than anything else.... Everything is a habit.... And once more, for the last time, you say “Yes. One more. Just another little one.”