She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. She undid his zipper and pulled his shorts down his hips. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood. “She must have character.
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