Peter, you're
the first man in all my life, in a-all my life who ever came to me k-
kindly and gently; so I had to l-love you and t-tell you, Peter."
The girl's wavering voice broke down completely; her face twisted with
grief. She groped for her chair, sat down, buried her face in her arms
on the table, and broke into a chattering outbreak of sobs that sounded
like some sort of laughter.
Her shoulders shook; the light gleamed on her soft, black Caucasian
hair. There was a little rent in one of the seams in her cheap jacket,
at one of the curves where her side molded into her shoulder. The
customer made garment had found Cissie's body of richer mold than it had
been designed to shield. And yet in Peter's distress and tenderness and
embarrassment, this little rent held his attention and somehow misprized
the wearer.
It seemed symbolic in the searching white light. He could see the very
break in the thread and the widened stitches at the ends of the rip. Her
coat had given way because she was modeled more nearly like the Venus de
Milo than the run of womankind.
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