Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. The flat was apparently empty. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. She mentally resolved to do her best to avoid personal encounters with him in that instant. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon.
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