Percy deliberately got to his feet and stretched, and out of the corner of his eye saw Webb’s hand still as he measured out ground coffee. He crossed the room to the bookshelves and looked for the second volume of Tom Jones. As the books were arranged with no regard to title, author, size, color, or any other quality Percy could determine, this took quite a while, and if he shifted his hips and stretched his arms over his head and in general posed like a bawd in the window of a cathouse, that was hardly his fault, now, was it.
