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Show ?3 eyes and quick smile and that she could trust him; she loved the quickening in her blood. A sociology major, he could also be eloquent, and part of his eloquence about the race problem was his tough arguments and part his sharp poised control over them, which she admired more than she realized. But what she loved and knew she loved was the passion behind them. She sought it out and played upon it, as he sought her passion and played upon it, and that led quickly to his bed. Neither were virgin but neither had ever before met another passion so like his own that they were virgin to diat joy. Their meetings, dieir talks, dieir love-making-they indulged diemselves, and too soon found that in further indulgence they had gone beyond the bed to the passion of violent quarrels. Those flung them apart. When she saw him with a girl also a sociology major and very sweet and docile, Jess dismissed him and went back to reading novels and writing poetry and pondering herself. Her passion hadn't surprised her, her sexual joy hadn't but should have. The first time in bed widi him when she saw diat part of the flesh of his upper right arm had been as if scooped out, a wound he had received at Anzio, she had discovered how much of passion is tenderness, in their quarrels she liad discovered how much is violence, but neidier explained her. She knew she could love and hate; all she hadn't known was how much she had loved his passion for her and for Justice, and now how much she hated him. What did that tell her? In November of her last year in school her grandmother's money ran out and, more important to her, she read in Passage to India that tlie white race is not really white but pinko-grey. Jobs were plentiful and she took one as a waitress so that it would be more "real," in die winter afternoons walking down 59th Street past the University, past Billings Hospital, catching a streetcar on Cottage Grove, transferring once. Got back to the co-op about eleven, studied, slept, got up and went to classes, studied between them, read on the streetcar, managed both the job and school with no trouble as she had known she could, but she stopped writing poetry and die constant drudgery, hours each day carrying food and dirty dishes when she could spend that part of her life at die things she loved-such waste of her life made her miserable. She had never known how much she could hate working for nodiing but money. When in February she went to a party and saw Milt, and his brown eyes and smiling mouth crashed in upon her, she knew instantly that dilemma 167 |