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“I’ve had fun, and this isn’t it.”
You are both a woman, amused by men, and a man, enthralled by women.
Others depend upon you, the steady one, and you depend upon others. Your lively imagination is governed by reason; you find it difficult to make friends, though you are a good friend to those you have made. At certain times you have feared that you are insane, at others that you are the only sane person in the world. You are patient, and yet eager.
“I have character, it’s just all rotten.”
That’s what fantasy is—classical lit that’s still alive.
Lenor, then, had been disappointed by Love. She had (afterward) been disappointed by hate as well, and the experience had drained her for thirteen years, leaving her a woman—a tastefully, an inexpensively, a sometimes not very neatly dressed woman—happy to arrive at her desk early every weekday morning and more than content to remain half an hour late when any reason to do so could be contrived. They said, “She runs the place,” and she knew and enjoyed it and despised them because it was true; you know her. In the evening she watched TV or read, and only weekends, during the thirteen years,
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The hearts of women are tender and easily broken, and there are men—we know them—who enjoy hearing the little chimes of the hearts as they break.
“That’s a very sad story,” said Ali, who was approaching that age at which young men desire women and so come to ruin.
