And it seemed then, with the affectionate gesture, the reassuring smile that accompanied it, the pleasant walk home, that the episode was closed, the incident over, but what incident, where flattery, even of a dubious nature, is involved, is ever over for a woman? What episode, in which she’s admired, however obliquely, is ever really ended? She will reopen what seems to you a finished chapter, and manage somehow, to add a disconcerting epilogue to some drama you assumed was done with quite some time ago.

– p. 40, In Love, Alfred Hayes

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