A sinister thought edged in. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. Only I am not an acquaintance at all. Except for a few early ebullitions of passion, natural to a warm and romantic disposition, and leaving no harmful after-effects—ebullitions that by the standards of the higher truth I feel no one can justly cast a stone at, and of which I for one am by no means ashamed—I come to you a pure and unencumbered man. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females. I keep my finger on the pulse of things.
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