He was not afraid of Howard's recognition. They
had never spoken to one another, and in any case Howard would not believe
his eyes.
It was strange to stand near to her again and to recognize the little
things about her that had fascinated small Robert Stonehouse--the line of
her neck, the brown mole at the corner of her eye which people were
always trying to rub off, the way her hair curled up from her temples in
two unmistakable horns. He had teased her about them in his shy, clumsy
way. A very subtle and sweet warmth emanated from her like a breath. It
took him back to the day when he had huddled close to her, hiccoughing
with grief and anger, and yet deeply, deliriously happy because she was
sorry for him. It made him giddy with a sense of unreality, as though
the present and the intervening years were only part of one of his night
stories, which, after their tiresome, undeviating custom, had got tangled
up in a monstrous, impossible dream. And then a new fancy took
possession of him. He wanted to bend closer to her and say, very
quietly, as though he were suggesting an order, "What about your
handkerchief? Do you want it back, Francey?"
Amidst his austerely disciplined thoughts the impulse was like a mad,
freakish intruder, and it frightened him, so that he drew back sharply.
"Cider-cup," she said. "It's my feast--and I like seeing the fruit and
pretending I can taste it. And then Howard won't get drunk and recite
poetry.
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