According to one of
the conflicting legends of the two gods of Genesis, woman was then
actually one with man. Marriage has ever since been an effort to
put her back among his ribs, but she has always refused to be
intercostal. It is an ancient habit to pretend that she is, and
sometimes she pretends to snuggle into place. Yet she has never been,
can never be, re-ribbed--especially not since marriage is an attempt
to fit her into the anatomy of an Adam who is always, in a sense,
a stranger to her.
Kedzie gazed on her Adam with a sense of departure, of farewell.
She felt a trifle sorry for Gilfoyle, and the moment she resolved
to quit him he became a little more attractive.
There was something pitiful about his helpless sprawl: his very
awkwardness endeared him infinitesimally. She nearly felt that
tenderness which good wives and fond mothers feel for the gawky
creatures they hallow with their devotion.
Kedzie leaned forward to kiss the poor wretch good-by, but,
unfortunately (or fortunately), a restlessness seized him, he
rolled over on his other side, and one limp, floppy hand struck
Kedzie on the nose.
She sprang back with a gasp of pain and hurried away, feeling
abused and exiled.
At the studio she was received by Garfinkel with distinction.
Ferriday came out to meet her with a shining morning face and led
her to the office of the two backers.
A contract was waiting for her and the pen and ink were handy. Kedzie
had never seen a contract before and she was as afraid of this one
as if it were her death warrant.
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