“Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. 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. They had been so considerate of the earth they had touched that they barely left a footprint. “For me there is no second turn.
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