His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. Shari smiled and Mike whispered to her. Jack was not half your age when he died. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. “Is that all you have to say?” Michelle challenged her. The room was intimate and wonderful to her with its shadows now cast over the girlish menagerie of stuffed animals.
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