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Show 149 her low, sultry laugh, her feet stained green from the cool grass, her lover bounding over tombstones 1n pursuit, the white moonlight flashing on their bodies as they paused at the brow of the hill that was visible from the front window and rolled over and over to the bottom where they lay panting in each other's arms, tiny grass cuts enflaming their bodies. He hadn't thought to look for grass cuts when he pulled back the covers last night. Everything about her made him angry when he went to pick her up that evening: her tentative smile, the tilt of her head, the swing of her wicker bag which she held with both hands behind her, the little skip she gave every third or fourth step to keep just ahead of him on the way to the car. She hummed to herself and spun back and forth on her stacked heels on the gravel of the parking lot while he opened the door for her, and then slid in, swinging her knees clear of the glove box. She found lots of things to occupy her on the sidewalks and intersections they passed; whenever he glanced at her she was sitting straight-backed and attentive to passing details out her window. When they reached home she sprang out, not waiting for him to open her door, and even took out her own key to the house. He paid special attention to that. She could never have found it so quickly in the rubble of her basket; she must therefore have had it in her hand from the start. She looked preoccupied and faintly amused during supper, and afterwards dashed around the house getting her things together for rehearsal while Lorin poured himself another glass of wine that he didn't want and drank it while staring at the scattered dishes on the drainboard. She didn't have many dishes, because she accumulated them one by one, like lutes and statues, and each had its complex of associations and each had its warp or ripple or other winsome eccentricity that made her love it. He was examining the hairline crack in the handle of her blue-and- |