He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. ‘I find you excessively rude. He pumped as she raised her legs obediently. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. ” The girl sat up and looked at him with a curious twist at the corners of her mouth —humorous or pathetic, he could not tell which. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse.
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