She will not confide in me. Lucy looked about confusedly. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. “It really is not necessary. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself.
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