He took his work to the window and tried to concentrate
upon it, but his mind kept playing away.
Indeed, it seemed to Peter that to sit in this old room and rewrite the
wordy meanderings of the old gentleman's book was the very height of
emptiness. How utterly futile, when all around him, on every hand, girls
like Cissie Dildine were being indentured to corruption! And, as far as
Peter knew, he was the only person in the South who saw it or felt it or
cared anything at all about it.
When Cissie Dildine came to the surface of Peter's mind she remained
there, whirling around and around in his chaotic thoughts. He began
talking to her image, after a certain dramatic trick of his mind, and
she began offering her environment as an excuse for what had come
between them and estranged them. She stole, but she had been trained to
steal. She was a thief, the victim of an immense immorality. The charm
of Cissie, her queer, swift-working intuition, the candor of her
confession, her voluptuousness--all came rushing down on Peter,
harassing him with anger and love and desire.
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