She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Stanley had never thought out. His physical body was predictably paralyzed with shyness and fear of rejection, barely soothed with a series 51 of blatantly direct requests and compliments.
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