Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. " Gently she thrust Ruth aside. The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. Everybody looked askance at everybody else. 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. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. She loves you too well for that.
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