” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. ” She pulled her dress back over her breasts, glad for the elastic that she had sewn in. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. "Well, I'm glad she's spared this. "What say you to carrying her off, Captain?" suggested Blueskin. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s.
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