He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. Lucy sat in the back seat as the trio sped through intersections in the old sedan. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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