"And I'm twenty-one."
"And, Terry, I'm beginning to want things."
Theresa knew the meaning of this general term. "It must be nice to know what you want," she said softly. "And to want such simple, beautiful things of every day."
"Yes, but they're hard to get. You can't do it all by yourself. I've been wandering up and down the streets, wishing I were going back to a little house with my own man in it, and a soft thing in a cradle. Theresa, aren't women wonderful?"
"What makes you say so?"
"They are so good! Oh, I want to be loved! Sometimes I so badly want to be loved that I could go and ask someone to do it!"
"That's not wanting to be loved," said Theresa bluntly.
"Well, words don't matter so long as you understand. But I don't do it! And think what men do!"
"It's worse for men."
"Not for all of them. Those are the only times when I want to read poetry, the only times when there seems any sense in it."