So she built a shrine. She could feel his penis pressing against her, half-erect under the starched black tuxedo pants. I can’t but feel it’s an undesirable complication to drag in the Charvills at this point. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. ‘You’re either mad, or in love.
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