Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. This done, she waited at the side of the bed; but he gave no sign that he was conscious of her nearness. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations.
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