She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. She moaned as his hands explored her body, fingers crushing against her panties under her skirt. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. You must wait till supper's over. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks.
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