She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. "But it is much to me. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. Only a book detective could dope this out. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. " "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that.
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