One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. She studied her form in the full length mirror, assessed 69 her body as one would that of a prize calf, trying to see it through his eyes, through the eyes of desire. ’ A laugh escaped her. Mrs. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly.
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