His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. Never had her father explained. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. She was a clever girl, the best of her year in the High School, and she made a valiant fight for Somerville or Newnham but her father had met and argued with a Somerville girl at a friend’s dinner-table and he thought that sort of thing unsexed a woman. " "Her release would be a mercy," pursued the matron.
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