Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. . . “A man can manage without hair; A man scores always, everywhere. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. Um. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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