His face was very serious. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. She had trouble outwitting him as he seemed to predict her words before he said them. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. He walked unsteadily towards the door. Go to her and tell her. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray.
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