It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. "But, let that pass. ‘I disgust you, eh? Very well, then. There was a maiden aunt who lived in the North who might let her live there for a few weeks until she disappeared.
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