"There," she said, "is an intimate act which ought to breed mutual contempt!"
We both laughed. She found a fresh section of the sheet and used it.
"You are an adorable boy," she said, keeping her face turned away but busy, now, with her sagging hair.
"It's got to come right some day," I said with the fatuous stupidity characteristic of the stymied swain.
"It won't," she remarked, "but let's pretend it will.... Is my nose red, Michael?"
"I can't see it when you turn your face away."
"I don't wish you to see it if it's red."
"But how can I judge——"
We burst into that freer laughter which welcomes the absurd when hearts are heavy laden.
Her dresser was within reach. I gazed at her back while she powdered her nose.