except that her face was puffy and swollen as if she had just gotten up from sleep.
She wanted to talk about herself, and I wanted to listen.
Her father had given her a good home, an education, everything a wealthy shipbuilder could give his only daughter—but not forgiveness.
He would never forgive her elopement with the sailor. She took my hand as she spoke, and rested her head on my shoulder.
"The night Gary and I were married," she whispered, "I was a terrified virgin. And he just went crazy.
First, he had to slap me and beat me. And then he took me with no love-making. That was the last time we were ever together.
I never let him touch me again." She could probably tell by the trembling of my hand that I was startled.
It was too violent and intimate for me. Feeling my hand stir, she gripped it tighter as if she had to finish her story before she could let me go.
It was important to her, and I sat quietly as one sits before a bird that feeds from your palm.
"Not that I don't like men," she assured me with wide-eyed openness. "I've been with other men. Not him, but lots of others.
Most men are gentle and tender with a woman. They make love slowly, with caresses and kisses first."
She looked at me meaningfully, and let her open palm brush back and forth against mine.
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