"It's not that. What bothers me is that I can't put into words the way I feel."
"These feelings are new to you. Not everything has to... be put into words."
I moved closer to her and tried to take her hand again, but she pulled away.
"No, Charlie. I don't think this is good for you. I've upset you, and it might have a negative effect."
When she put me off, I felt awkward and ridiculous at the same time.
It made me angry with myself and I pulled back to my side of the seat and stared out the window.
I hated her as I had never hated anyone before—with her easy answers and maternal fussing.
I wanted to slap her face, to make her crawl, and then to hold her in my arms and kiss her.
"Charlie, I'm sorry if I've upset you." "Forget it." "But you've got to understand what's happening."
"I understand," I said, "and I'd rather not talk about it."
By the time the cab reached her apartment on Seventy-seventh Street, I was thoroughly miserable.
"Look," she said, "this is my fault. I shouldn't have gone out with you tonight." "Yes, I see that now."
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