"Only for girls."
"Couldn't it be bleached?"
"Not and get that color."
"Must I suffer, then?"—with his hand still on his brow.
"I'm afraid that's the only way." She lowered his hand in her own, and gave it a tender pressure on its descent.
"Must it be lingering, or something sharp and sudden?"
She pressed his hand again, and looked affectionately into his eyes. "Both, perhaps."
"Will it be fear or anxiety or shame?"
"Wait and see."
Atwater rolled up his sketches and threw them into a drawer. Then he went to his cabinet and took out a few small strips and squares of encaustic tiling in yellow and gray.