‘You’re a soft sort of kid,’ the Boy said. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m seventeen,’ she said defiantly; there was a law which said a man couldn’t go with you before you were seventeen.
‘I’m seventeen too,’ the Boy said, and the eyes which had never been young stared with grey contempt into the eyes which had only just begun to learn a thing or two. He said, ‘Do you dance?’ and she replied humbly: ‘I haven’t danced much.’
‘It don’t matter,’ the Boy said, ‘I’m not one for dancing.’ He eyed the slow movement of the two-backed beasts: pleasure, he thought, they call it pleasure: he was shaken by a sense of loneliness, an awful lack of understanding…