Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance. “Let me help you,” he begged. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. The elusive Jane tapped her on the shoulder after class. But that instinct is severely dampened most of the time.
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