The months that followed September spiraled downward. Michelle spoke to Lucy about the dinner party after the concert. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. "I'm sure little Jack has but one friend beside myself, in the world, and that's more than I would have ventured to say for him yesterday. She felt his erection against her naked thigh. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. I really cannot have anything to do with Mr. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. It was painful to want him so much. I want you to hold me and have me SO. “Why do you need to go for a walk, Michelle?” Diane asked darkly.
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