“You have promised me now—to let me see you next Christmas?”
Clarice straightened herself. “I have done nothing of the sort.”
She spoke with a wrinkle of her forehead and her kissed mouth dryly puckered. “Next Christmas—” she paused and tilted her head vaguely up with a distant look, “Next Christmas—who knows?”
“Then why,” said the angry boy, as he followed after her, “then why did you let me kiss you?”
This time, Clarice stopped.
“Are you sorry?” she asked.
“I most certainly am!” burst from him.
Unscathed, Clarice shrugged her shoulders.
They walked to her home, in silence.
“Good-bye,” said she.