And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. He rolled on top of her, pinning her with his arms and forming a tented cage. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Then instantly she got out of bed and proceeded to dress. I was—I was a corespondent. It’s these damned novels. ‘You see, it is that I am a female, and you all are men. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes.
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