She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. Reverse psychology or something, it’s like she was trying to draw him nearer by pushing him away.
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