“Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. As he crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key. 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. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. "It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip," laughed Ben: "the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. And now let's go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester.
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