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. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. His face was very serious. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. Then she came a few steps to meet him. “You are neither of you in the least like the ordinary boarding-house young man. Sebastianus began performing Marina’s last rites. Spit of your mother.
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