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The attack came while Robin was thinking about roast beef.
He would worry about that when he planned to worry about everything else. Tomorrow.
He directed the smile at Miss Morrissey, but he’d started it—perhaps by mistake—when he was looking at Edwin, and it was like being caught in the last rays of sunset.
You look like a Turner painting and I want to learn your textures with my fingertips. You are the most fascinating thing
in this beautiful house. I’d like to introduce my fists to whoever taught you to stop talking about the things that interest you.
Edwin morbidly considered flinging himself from the vehicle, but settled his nerves with the force of habit and will.
was the way he felt watching Edwin read; it was the feeling he had every time his eyes sought Edwin in a room and landed on any angle of the man’s face, any movement of
those delicate fingers: There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.
It didn’t take long to become so accustomed to something that you could describe the exact shape of its absence.
“And we are but feeble women,” said Miss Morrissey. “Woe.”
