. \" Cathy poured her a glass. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. And there arose too, a background of shouts. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn.
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