It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. “I do,” he answered. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. They vanished through the doorway. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy.
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