” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. ‘That’s a loud one. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Why don’t you wait and see if you do truly love me, then I can believe you? Then I know I am worth waiting for. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness.
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