The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. It’s these damned novels. Her soft brown eyes, inherited from Larry, warmed an already pretty face.
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