“My God,” he whispered softly, “your hair!”
He brushed it lightly with his hand.
“What about it?” she said, and her voice was nearly as soft as his.
“Passionate,” he cried; “like flame ... flame ... good-night....”
He fled into the dark vista of a side-street.
§ 6
The clock on the Carnegie library said, Ten minutes past ten. Catherine thought, Now for a big row at home....
She had been forbidden to come in later than nine o’clock.
“When I was young ...” her mother had said.
And her father had argued: “I can’t see..what you need ever to be out later than nine for.... You’ve got all the daytime, surely you don’t need the night as well.... I can’t understand.... It’s not as if we didn’t let you do what you like on Saturday afternoons....”