. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. I will arise myself. “How unkind!” she exclaimed. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him.
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