He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. “My God!” he said again. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. She had been obliged to wait all morning for the opportunity to talk to Martha, who chose always to retire to her cell for the period of recreation that preceded afternoon prayers.
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