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questioning of moral codes. Amory found it rather fascinating to feel
that any popular girl he met before eight he might quite possibly kiss
"Why on earth are we here?" he asked the girl with the green combs one
night as they sat in some one's limousine, outside the Country Club in
"I don't know. I'm just full of the devil."
"Let's be frank--we'll never see each other again. I wanted to come out
here with you because I thought you were the best-looking girl in sight.
You really don't care whether you ever see me again, do you?"
"No--but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to deserve
"And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of the
things you said? You just wanted to be--"
"Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to _analyze_. Let's not
_talk_ about it."
When the hand-knit, sleeveless jerseys were stylish, Amory, in a burst
of inspiration, named them "petting shirts." The name travelled from
coast to coast on the lips of parlor-snakes and P. D.'s.
Amory was now eighteen years old, just under six feet tall and
exceptionally, but not conventionally, handsome. He had rather a young
face, the ingenuousness of which was marred by the penetrating green
eyes, fringed with long dark eyelashes. He lacked somehow that intense
animal magnetism that so often accompanies beauty in men or women; his
personality seemed rather a mental thing, and it was not in his power
to turn it on and off like a water-faucet. But people never forgot his
She paused at the top of the staircase. The sensations attributed to
divers on spring-boards, leading ladies on opening nights, and lumpy,
husky young men on the day of the Big Game, crowded through her. She
should have descended to a burst of drums or a discordant blend of
themes from "Thais" and "Carmen." She had never been so curious about
her appearance, she had never been so satisfied with it. She had been
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