She complied at once: she flushed with anger that she had. Tom came and leaned over her. He looked obliquely at her great black eyes and the sharp perfection of her chin and the way of her white throat. He put his open hands on her hair, he turned her face upward toward him. He placed his dosed lips on her parted ones. His hands slipped down her face, her neck, her body. He stood away. She said:
“Why do you do that, Tom?”
“That is how I feel.”
“Don’t lie, Tom.”
Her eyes blazed up. It was a burst of bravery and challenge. They crumpled. She hid her head in her arms, she wept.
Tom put his hand firmly to the back of her head where the hair was caught away from the neck.
“Listen, Marcia, I am not lying. Listen, please, Marcia.”
She was silent, if she was still weeping. She did not raise her head.
Tom leaned and kissed her neck. The faint scent of her hair in his eyes.