[Quote][indent][color=gray]She squeezed his hand, and raised it, and turned it palm upward. “So soft,” she said. She caressed his palm with her thumb, which moved slowly and rhythmically in small circles. “That's the only thing I don't like about the men here. Their hands are so rough.”

He was trembling. With his free hand he grasped the armrest of the sofa and held it tightly.

“What do they call you?” Francine asked softly. “Is it William?”

“Will,” Andrews said.

“I'll call you William,” she said. “It's more like you, I think.” She smiled slowly at him. “You're very young, I think.”

He removed his hand from the smooth caress of her fingers. “I am twenty-three.”

She came closer to him, sliding across the sofa; the rustle of her stiff smooth dress sounded like soft cloth tearing. Her shoulder lightly pressed against his shoulder, and she breathed gently, evenly.

“Don't be angry,” she said. “I'm glad you're young. I want you to be young. All of the men here are old and hard. I want you to be soft, while you can be. . . . When will you go with Miller and the others?”

“Three or four days,” Andrews said. “But we will be back within the month. And then—”

Francine shook her head, though she continued smiling. “Yes, you'll be back; but you won't be the same. You'll not be so young; you will become like the others.”

Andrews looked at her confusedly, and in his confusion cried: “I will only become myself!”

She continued as if he had not interrupted. “The wind and sun will harden your face; your hands will no longer be soft.”[/color][/indent][/quote]
[indent][indent]— John Williams, [i]Butcher's Crossing[/i][/indent][/indent]