She pulled, he rose to his feet. ’ She threw a melting look at Roding. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. Please don’t tell anyone, mister. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune.
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