One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. Over here, there was generally some unusual twist to a case. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. A fortnight passed, then a month.
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