D.M. Francon

She did not belong in this room, at this meeting. He could not say why, but the certainty of it was enormous and oppressive. It was not her beauty, it was not her insolent elegance. But something made her an outsider. It was as if they had all been comfortably naked, and a person had entered fully clothed, suddenly making them self-conscious and indecent. Yet she did nothing She sat listening attentively. Once, she leaned back, crossing her legs, and lighted a cigarette. She school the flame off the match with a brusque little jerk of her wrist and she dropped the match into the ash tray; he felt as if that movement of her wrist had tossed the match into all their faces.

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