‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. ‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. To her horror she realized that she had nearly forgotten how to kiss after a years-long dry spell, and she could detect drool on her own chin and John’s cheek. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat.
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