It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. What would happen when next morning she returned to Morningside Park? He couldn’t turn her out of doors. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. We leave this room together. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. They sat in the front row.
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