She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. ‘Jacques?’ she called. The Higher Life and the Lower. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. She had found two copies of the magazine and carefully cut out both photos. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses.
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