Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. “That’s a weird name. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. The evenings were dulcet and soft. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her.
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