They had come to a set of plates of gentlemen’s fashions, and the stiff, artificial poses of the subjects evidently amused them. ‘Look at this one... Millie, do! He’s as stiff and Friday-faced as poor Mr. M’Crimmond.’ ‘But at least he’s handsome, not all skin and bone with the face of a crusader on a battered old tomb.’ ‘Hush, the pair of you,’ I cried. How can you talk of him so? Supposing Mama, or Mrs. Ferguson (the housekeeper) were to hear you. You know everything she hears gets back to. That was a good thing. i was still attracted to him. i still wanted him. in that basement. with the lights low. everything new. when i talked to him all the old feelings would emerge. i didn't know if i should tell him at first, but couldn't deny it. when i talked to him, i would touch myself. getting wet, i'd ask him personal questions. did he touch himself last night? yes. (getting more excited) did he fuck his wife that morning? yes. (more wet) i could feel myself breathing harder thinking. More

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