‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. I shall only pray that I may reward you for all your goodness to me. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. The last piece was Scheherazade. She had fallen asleep. Stir a foot, and I strike. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. And experience was slow in coming.
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