“What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. Maggot. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. Morningside Park was a suburb that had not altogether, as people say, come off. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. “Quite right,” she said. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction.
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