The redhaired woman leaned over to put a plate of toasted muffins on the table. Her round breasts hung heavy against the thin muslin of her blouse There was a faint rancid smell from her armpits.
She doesn't wear corsets; sloppy that modern style. Here comes the bride, here comes the bride... Make a formal declaration. A marriage license engraved with cupids and hearts. Wobbling from side to side ... Sukie Smith and I walking round the block singing that one Fourth, smell of lindens, and people laughing at us and asking if we meant it, until Mother stopped us. Here come the groom, straight as a broom!
"What a comfort tea is, Nan. I feel my tongue getting loose again. I wish we could talk about ourselves a little."
"I hate it above anything, but let's ... Do you know, Fanshaw, I think sometimes that the more people see of each other the less they get to know. You can tell a stranger anything, but a friend ..."
"It's awfully hard to say anything about what I really feel ... If we only had the Eighteenth Century code of badinage."
"On ne badine pas avec l'amour."
Fanshaw felt something like terror chilling his spine. He was tapping with a teaspoon on the table. Nan looked straight at him with narrowed eyes.
"That's what I meant, Nan, I ..."
"But why not after all?... Why not play with love to keep it from playing with us?" cried Nan wildly. The radiance of her eyes hurt like a too bright light.
"O, Nan, what are we going to do about ourselves, you and I?"