She did not sleep. She breathed a new fragrance, which was not so much sexual as personal, a faint perfume on her own arms, in her own hair. She felt the strangeness of the carefully arranged sheet that covered her. She listened to the morning silence of the room. Ann was the one to get up quietly and go, away from Bill, away from Silver, away from occasional strangers. She had never made love in her own room before. She had never been left before. She lay for some minutes, unthinking, peacefully bereft. Then quite suddenly her drifting consciousness caught on a sharp memory of the night before and hung there, unable to set itself free.She sat up and shook her head fiercely, trying to dislodge an ambiguous wonder.“It’s nothing,” she said to herself. “It’s nothing important.”But it had not been just another casual night. She had thought about it, planned it, and worked toward it for over a week. It was an accomplishment, the result of a calculated campaign. For what? For nothing.
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