A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. That might happen on her birthday—in August. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School, and had done much to send her mind exploring beyond the limits of the available literature at home. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk.
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