When Sheila was in a good mood, one almost enjoyed her. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. " He stared at the agitated curtain; and slowly his chin sank until it touched his chest. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. A slender young man, wearing glasses, appeared from the shadow of the nearest van. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble.
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