His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. Shari tried a dozen new makeups on her, and Cathy spritzed her with her best perfume, Chanel Number Five. He nodded silently, too full for words. She hated living like that. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down.
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