“Only so many men neglect their duties. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She looked down at him and was amazed to see him erect again, amazed at the incredible virility that he possessed. I would be too 222 busy protecting you. She felt that she had passed a difficult corner, and that now she could go on talking with him again, just as she had been used to do before she understood what was the matter with her. The water was cold but she waded deeper. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts.
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