That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. Damn! I’ve splashed. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that much in my entire life, Lucy, and that’s saying something. Everything is being done that can be. ’ ‘Take care,’ warned Hilary, his eyes on his improvised bandage. “Sheila and Mark McCloskey?” Michelle asked.
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