Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. We don’t consider each other; we needn’t. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. ’ The breathy laugh came, and Madame Valade abandoned her fan. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Her canines had receded, but were still 166 prominent. It hit her just above the knee.
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