This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. All the same, I don’t admit it. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. I'm not sure I'd go out with him anyway. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep.
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