A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. His name was Peter. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. He drove it into her missionary style, and though he was worried about hurting her, he could not stop himself from thrusting into her deeply. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. ” “I suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get some such entanglement. Almost light-heartedly.
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