“You underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. She flew up from her stool and faced the door. He propped himself up on one arm, kissing her passionately. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. She calmed herself, breathing deeply.
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