She laughed again. "I don't like to be disapproved of." "No one's ever going to disapprove of you again." "Omar," she asked, "why do you want to marry me?" The prodigy rose and put his hands in his pockets. "Because I love you, Marcia Meadow." And then she stopped calling him Omar. "Dear boy," she said, "you know I sort of love you. There's something about you—I can't tell what—that just puts my heart through the wringer every time I'm round you. But honey—" She paused. "But what?" "But lots of things. But you're only just eighteen, and I'm nearly twenty."
