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Updated: May 22, 2025
Looking out above her head at the vapory sky showing through the parting of the pink-brocade curtains, rigidity raced over Mr. Cox, stiffening his hold of her. The lean look had come out in his face; the flanges of his nose quivered; his head went up.
He let his forehead drop against her arm, and in the long silence that ensued she sat there, her hand on his hair. The roar of traffic, seventeen stories below, came up through the open windows like the sound of high seas, and from where she sat, staring out between the pink-brocade curtains, it was as if the close July sky dipped down to meet that sea, and space swam around them.
She saw Connie lace her shabby pink-brocade corset together with a black shoestring; she saw Rose close with white thread a great hole in the heel of a black silk stocking. Their crimped hair nauseated her, their rouge and powder and cologne. She could hardly listen in patience to their careless and sometimes coarse chatter. And when they were gone she still lay there, thinking thinking thinking!
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