She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. “I noticed him call her attention to us as we passed down the room,” he answered. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. But two weeks later he returned. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. Yet she held her tongue.
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