It is Thérèse. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. ‘I escape from a fate entirely misérable, you understand. ” “It is ironic that you say that, John, for it is I who am afraid of you. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel.
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