She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. McClintock liked it. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone.
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