Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. Saviour's Stairs. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. 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.
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