The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. 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. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover.
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