The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. When she got home to her lodgings that evening she reflected with something like surprise upon her half-day’s employment, and decided that it showed nothing more nor less than that Capes was a really very interesting person indeed. 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. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. Easy enough.
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