’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. She has power over men’s fates in more ways than one. It was no marriage at all. Now, more and more, we’re going to be interested in them, to be curious about them and—quite mildly-experimental with them. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. Her faculties seemed for a moment numbed. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. “Please search everywhere,” she said. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things.
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