S. His voice now had lost its ironies. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. She let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. He pushed her back forcefully into her seat with his lips, his body automatically responding to her kiss. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. "Hands off!" she exclaimed, "or you'll repent it. Brendon.
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