“In fact, yes, I do. Yon must be mine to-night. If we do not begin—” She had come to a resolution. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. 148 “Sure. You are afraid of kisses. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape.
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