His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “Is Coke okay?” He asked as he pulled into the gas station. He seemed to be. ” He bit, feeling the numb desire to maul her. \"Are you hungry at all?\" He asked her. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat.
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