She was naked, though I had not seen her undress. When I put my cloak about her, her skin felt flushed—as my own was—from the heat of the blaze. Her little hands slipped under my clothes, caressing me. “So good,” she said. “So smooth.” And then (though we had coupled before), “Won’t I be too small?”, like a child.
I'm going to finish this book, but for the love of all that is holy, I am completely disgusted and will never read another Gene Wolfe book as long as I live.
