“You’ve made him very happy,” he said rather unsteadily.
“Oh, yes!” said she. “It was like a Fate, wasn’t it? I always had a feeling that I wasn’t like other girls. I always thought something out of the way would happen to me, though I never thought of anything like this.”
“You mustn’t tell me about him,” said Mendel.
“I must tell someone or I shall die. He’s so extraordinary. He says it’s something deeper than love, and I think it must be.”
“You must not talk about it,” he said.
“It makes all the stuff he talks about seem silly. I don’t understand it, do you?”
She lay back in her chair and swung her foot, with her eyes fixed on the door waiting for Logan to return.
Mendel’s dislike of her sprang up in him again, and he was a little afraid of her: of her big, fleshy body, so full now of little trickling streams of pleasure; of her eyes, watching, watching, with the strange, glassy steadiness of the eyes of a bird of prey. . . . He decided that he would not dance with her. He would dance with the others—the little, harmless, pretty fools.
To reassure himself he told himself that Logan was happy, and strong enough to resist the growing will in this woman.