"Have I no ears? Don't I hear your beautiful singing?"
"Beautiful singing!" she said, without looking at me
After a considerable pause I said, awkwardly, "You know, Mrs.
Levinsky, I dreamed of you last night!"
"Did you?"
"Aren't you interested to know something more about it?" "I dreamed of telling you that you are a good-looking lady," I pursued, with fast-beating heart
"What has got into that fellow?" she asked of the kerosene-stove. "He is a greenhorn no longer, as true as I am alive." "You won't deny you are good-looking, will you?"
"What is that to you?" And again addressing herself to the
kerosene-stove: "What do you think of that fellow? A pious
Talmudist indeed! Strike me blind if I ever saw one like that."
And she uttered a gobble-like chuckle
I saw encouragement in her manner. I went on to talk of her songs and the Jewish theater, a topic for which I knew her to have a singular weakness.
The upshot was that I soon had her telling me of a play she had recently seen. As she spoke, it was inevitable that she should come up close to the lounge. As she did so, her fingers touched my quilt, her bare, sturdy arms paralyzing my attention. The temptation to grasp them was tightening its grip on me. I decided to begin by taking hold of her hand. I warned myself that it must be done gently, with romance in my touch. "I shall just caress her hand," I decided, not hearing a word of what she was saving
I brought my hand close to hers. My heart beat violently. I was just about to touch her fingers, but I let the opportunity pass. I turned the conversation on her husband, on his devotion to her, on their wedding. She mocked my questions, but answered them all the same