The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Mr. “I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home. She was watching him intently. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. 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. I wouldn't have him see me in this state for the world. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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