In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. The significance of the kiss was still obscure to her, though she had frequently encountered the word and act in the Old and New Testaments and latterly in novels. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. It was for ever. I am clear I want you.
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