She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. There was a lot of that, John, a great deal of hunger.
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