Gerald saw her eyes change as she recognised him. “It was a phase,” she said. Melusine gave herself a little mental shake. 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. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered.
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