Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. She was perplexed by this, and stood for some seconds in the empty street hesitating, until the appearance of another circumspect woman under the street lamp at the corner reassured her. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. “But you do not know,” she whispered, “whether I am a married woman or not. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without. Still, one never could tell. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. Saw the villain through the keyhole. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. .
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