A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. A quick flush stained her cheeks. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. We all have to kow-tow to that.
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