"He—stopped."
"Yeah. Well, I figures here's a man, and I got my new routine, let's try it out. So I raised my skirt again, watching his face, and went on from there."
"On. From there. I see."
"And Doc," she became intensely excited, and I must confess I found it fairly difficult to preserve my own calm, "when I went through that hip-sway, his face became dim, and then sort of cloudy, and then, in a flash, there I was back in my room again just as if it never had happened."
I said, "Miss LaTour, tell me, when you were a child, were you always imagining that men would turn around to look at you: that is, that they were always looking at you?"
"They were," she stated flatly. "Hey—you think I'm imagining I was somewhere else? Well, you're wrong, Doc. I was on a desert, I tell you—and what's more, when I got back in my room, there was sand on the bottom of my slippers!"
"Of course," I soothed her. "I'm not arguing with you at all."
"Look—" She became vehement. "I'll do my routine right here, in front of you, and you'll see—"
I pleaded with her that this was entirely unnecessary, but she began to walk enticingly about the room, humming some tune.