‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. God, we suck. She washed her face twice after making smudgy eyeshadow and lipstick errors. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. He had the air of a man who has said too much. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland.
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