She was in the room, between him and the piano. He was looking up at her, at her oval face that capped the aloof slenderness of her body in green clinging crepe with long sleeves. O God, to put my hands on her breasts, to touch my lips to the richness of her neck.
"Well, you are an early bird this morning, Wenny."
She stopped beside the window. Behind her head clouds skidded across a green patch of sky.
"It's cold this morning," he heard his voice say.
"I'm afraid we'll have a thaw before the day is out.... O, Wenny, I hate this wretched climate. Why aren't we all millionaires so that we could escape the Boston climate?"
"Why not escape?" The words stuck in his throat. You damn fool, pull yourself together, a little furious voice was saying in his head.
"Ah, the coffee's boiling over.... Wenny, run and fetch the milk and the paper, will you, please?"
He ran eagerly to the front door. The paper had a bitter diurnal smell that smacked of his father. Black and white, stuffy-looking like his father in black with his collar round backwards. He dropped the paper again and slammed the door.
"Here's the milk."
The kitchenette was full of velvety warm coffeesteam.