Molly shrugged. “Wouldn’t she be showing wear?” she drawled. When in
this mood she said something spiteful, one felt that the pauses between
her words were insufferable. Her manner was a blend of the prostitute
and the acidulated spinster. I thought of Eva, whose manner charmed me;
hers was a tenuous aloofness that under a strain might give way but
never descend. Hers was the cool pride of a head held high and eyes
that looked straight. Her brows levelled, she threw at the world, by
the power of this direct regard, that a vast disgust of all physical
contact held her imagination.
The very young man begged Molly: “Go on talking? Don’t stop?”