When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement. . He kissed her cheek. He called a waiter. There were two. For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. She struggled not to be afraid. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. He uttered her name and his excitement grew when he did not feel a bra. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. His blood would be sweet with it. Visible underneath his collar were some metal tags. She seemed to have no idea whatever of the emotional states that were becoming to her age and position. Luckily I’m not.
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