Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence. Stanley’s acquaintance in the train and shown him one or two trifling civilities. And she’s pluck to the backbone.
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