She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. She would write to Gerald. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. In another instant, the collision took place. “Here, dis is for you. Under the circumstances you must permit me to be the best judge of the identity of the young lady who did me the honour, as an old family friend, of dining with me. Let me say it to you. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. But I was portentous, I can assure you. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.
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