"Why did you ask if I were a British subject?" I said, to start the conversation.
She leaned away from me, tilting her mask close to the window. "See the Moon," she said in a quick, dreamy voice.
"But why, really?" I pressed, conscious of an irritation that had nothing to do with her.
"It's edging up into the purple of the sky."
"And what's your name?"
"The purple makes it look yellower."
Just then I became aware of the source of my irritation. It lay in the square of writhing light in the front of the cab beside the driver.
I don't object to ordinary wrestling matches, though they bore me, but I simply detest watching a man wrestle a woman. The fact that the bouts are generally "on the level," with the man greatly outclassed in weight and reach and the masked females young and personable, only makes them seem worse to me.
"Please turn off the screen," I requested the driver.