"
"I thought we might walk down and see a movie."
"I'd like to."
"Then I could bring you home. I'd have just enough time. I've got to be
in camp by eleven."
It was so dark that he could scarcely see her now. She was a dress
swayed infinitesimally by the wind, two limpid, reckless eyes ...
"Why don't you come--Dot? Don't you like movies? Better come."
She shook her head.
"I oughtn't to."
He liked her, realizing that she was temporizing for the effect on him.
He came closer and took her hand.
"If we get back by ten, can't you? just to the movies?"
"Well--I reckon so--"
Hand in hand they walked back toward down-town, along a hazy, dusky
street where a negro newsboy was calling an extra in the cadence of the
local venders' tradition, a cadence that was as musical as song.
Dot
Anthony's affair with Dorothy Raycroft was an inevitable result of his
increasing carelessness about himself. He did not go to her desiring to
possess the desirable, nor did he fall before a personality more vital,
more compelling than his own, as he had done with Gloria four years
before. He merely slid into the matter through his inability to make
definite judgments.
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