I myself descended into fulfilling the functions of a rudimentarily developed chaperon--functions similar in importance to those performed by the eyes of a mole.

I had the maddest of accesses of jealousy if she talked to a man--and _such_ men--or danced with one.

And then I was forever screwing my courage up and feeling it die away.

We used to drive about in a coupe, a thing that shut us inexorably together, but which quite as inexorably destroyed all opportunities for what one calls making love.

In smooth streets its motion was too glib, on the _pave_ it rattled too abominably.