His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. I have given up painting. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. “You will not object,” he said, glancing towards her, “to accepting a deposit. ” She sniffled. She felt pride sashay into her thoughts. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn.
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