"She's not a woman," he went on in a purring voice. "She's a lust. No brain. No heart. A stark unhuman piece of flesh with a shark's hunger inside it."
He leaned forward and took one of her hands as Lockwood whispered,
"Christ, man, let's get out of here."
The woman's fingers, dry and quivering, scratched against Dorn's palm. He felt them as a hot breath in his blood.
"What's the matter, Warren?" he laughed, emptying a wine-glass. "I like this gal. She suits me. A devourer of men. Look at her!"
He laughed and glared at his friend. Lockwood closed his eyes nervously.
"I've got a headache in this damned place," he muttered.
"Wait a minute." Dorn seized his arm. "I want to talk. I feel gabby. My lady friend doesn't understand words." The sulphurous eyes glowed caresses over him. "You remember the thing in Rabelais about women—insatiable, devouring, hungering in their satieties. The prowling animal. Well, here it is. Alive. Not in print. She's alive with something deeper than life. Wheels of flesh grinding her blood into a hunger for ecstasies. She's a mate for me. Come on, little one."
He sprang from the table, pulling the woman after him.
"Wait here, Warren," he called, moving toward the door. It opened, letting in a shout and sweep of rain, and they were gone.