She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. He pulled down a chair to her left. She saw it, and checked without thinking. His father spoke for him. She sensed that he was looking for her. The chance it is the same for both. He was an imaginative young man. The charm of innocence breathes around her, as fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her lightest thought and action, and shielding her, like a spell, from the approach of evil.
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