He let go of the girl’s arm. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. I do not intend to be married, or to become engaged just at present. I don’t love you. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. She turned to face him and he kissed her.
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