The strokes landed with a fury, as the blonde counted, “1, 2, 3..” and the audience chimed in, counting each blow as the victim cried and danced. ...The blonde stopped, lifted the cane above her head and, with the crowd shouting, “Do it, do it,” let fly a strong blow which sent the girl swinging on the trapeze like a tether ball on a rope, legs flailing the air, tears streaming. She repeated this several times as the delicate girl swung in an arc, first away from her tormentor, then back, until. It’s the lack of intimacy, I guess, that’s the problem. I just don’t have a good solution.”“What about Sunday morning,” Kurt said. “Usually everyone just kind of does their own thing. What if some of us just got together in the ‘Indian’ room and drank tea and talked? Just hanging out, no deep, philosophical questions, but the kind of stuff we used to talk about at the apartment.”“That might work since most of the rest of our friends don’t arrive until around lunchtime.”“I’ve been going to. More

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