\"So, guess who just asked me to the Junior Prom?\" Lucy's eyes widened. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He looked at her guiltily. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened.
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