Lucy simply added her own good night, even though a significant part of her wanted to call Cathy mother, she refrained. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. He just wants to get laid. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. But I shan't let him off thus.
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