She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. I think too much about myself. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. God, we suck. No one spoke to her. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting.
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