She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. . ” She looked thoughtfully into the fire. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella.
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