She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes. ‘Give me that!’ He took his finger away from her neck and made a grab at the handkerchief. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. Fear nothing.
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