"I can't be rational--and I won't be molecular." She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and whispered with a sort of romantic finality: "I thought so, Juan, I feared so--you're sentimental.

You're not like me.

I'm a romantic little materialist." "I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are.

The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won't." (This was an ancient distinction of Amory's.) "Epigrams.

I'm going home," she said sadly.