“I guess so.”
“Sure, just another little one now.”
She isn’t thinking at all now. If she were she’d probably suggest going
in, for it is late and she wants to dance. But it doesn’t seem late; it
doesn’t seem as though time is going on at all. She isn’t thinking. She
doesn’t start to think even when you kiss her more enthusiastically and
not so lazily. This must be the way a plant feels on a hot summer day
when it hasn’t anything to do but grow. Not happy; not sad.
It is only when she realized at last that you are growing importunate
that she stirs herself and protests. She isn’t sure what to say; the
protest is more a matter of habit than anything else.... Everything is a
habit.... And once more, for the last time, you say “Yes. One more. Just
another little one.”