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I’m not sorry. Still, she was aware. She said again, “Jim, don’t do anything.”
    “You don’t want me to?”
    “Yes, I do, but don’t.”
    “Aw, baby, Evie, sweet little pretty girl.”
    “Jim.”
    She tried to think back on everything she had thought about when they were in the back booth at the Golden Eagle. It was important to remember. She had never felt so alien before, so unlike anyone and alone. She had thought, Who will I marry someday and what will it be like? and she had thought, How dull it would be to marry Jim Prince! She wished she were older and she wondered vaguely, as she had all night, where Russel Lofton was, what he was doing. She was sure she had thought more, but it had all gone and now she was with Jim and she found herself surprised.
    “What?” she said.
    “It’ll be all right.”
    “No.”
    “Remember I’m a med student.”
    “I never — ”
    “Poor baby — afraid.”
    “No, I’m not afraid. It’s just — ”
    “Oh, God, Evie. God, Evie, God!”
    She said, “No, no, no,” but even as she said no she knew it was too late, and she knew she no longer meant what she said, and she stopped saying it and let herself be herself.
    “Jim!”
    In the background the waltz stopped, and the announcer chanted, “… pure, pure, pure, pure, ninety-seven and sixty-two one hundredths per cent pure, pure, pure …”

Chapter Six
    Charles Wright is believed to be suffering from incipient schizophrenia, but the complete break that marks insanity has not yet occurred…. Today he is a dangerous type of sexual psychopath. His life is directed toward nihilistic destruction, yet he pursues this purpose with a mind and manner that to the innocent and inexpert are friendly and without malice.
    — From a report of the Sanity Commission prior to the arraignment of the accused
    A T THE TOP OF SOCK HILL , Charlie stopped running. He cut through the path to the back where the ski slopes were in the winter and walked across the field. There was a moon. He sat down in the middle of the field in the dry hay grass and put his knuckles in his mouth.
    He thought, She is a woman, she is a woman, she is a woman. Oh, God, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, he wanted to smash the air with his hands and yell her name to the darkness.
    Ćalm down, fellow, calm down. She’s just the lousy owner of the Red Clover Bookshop in Azrael, Vermont, and you are Charlie Wright! Age sixteen, fool!
    Then Charlie shut his eyes and saw her coming across the meadow in an ice-blue dress shimmering its soft light in the light of the moon, coming toward him, calling his name, and he was on his feet to meet her. Listen, there are harps and violins and slow guitars humming as she crosses to him, holding her hand out to him, saying his name, “Charles Wright,” dignified, solemn. “Charles Wright.”
    He kneels then, kneels before her, his forehead brushing the hem of her dress, and it is a very beautiful time now, a very beautiful and serious time.
    “Stand up, Charles Wright. Stand here beside me.”
    He rises, rises and then, oh, for the love of Pete, oh, goddamn, oh, hell, why the hell did he have to sit around in a clump of weeds thinking all this stuff?
    Jill! Jill! Jill! He didn’t want to say her name. Why did he? In fact, he was tired of her, tired of thinking of her, tired of hanging around in a field in the moonlight on a crazy July night making something out of nothing. She could go to the devil if she didn’t trust him enough to tell him about herself!
    Take it easy, Charles, Charles. Now just a minute. You’re
lucky!
Do you know that? You’re plain
lucky!
You can make a good friend now. You never had a good friend who understood you. A good mature friend. Charles, Charles, what’s the matter with you, anyway?
    That’s right. Gee, sure, that’s right.
    Of course it’s right.
    I’m a fool.
    You’re all right. You’re a little too bright for your age, that’s all. You have to slow down, Charles,