She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. He flung aside all his talk of help and disinterested friendship as though it had never been even a disguise between them, as though from the first it was no more than a fancy dress they had put quite understandingly upon their relationship. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. Horrible details recurred to her.
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