“Let’s stop,” said Susan, suiting the action to the word.
Labotte wagged his head.
“I know a leedle salon,” he chanted rhythmically, “ ’alf-way on the stairs.”
As the girl turned, he laid hands upon her. It was his way. He always smeared his prey. The suggestion of an embrace appealed to him. For one thing, it looked so well. It argued a certain proprietorship—a seignory, such as other men did not enjoy; it suggested the existence of a familiarity which, short of a scene, his victim could seldom rebut: it enhanced his reputation as an irresistible dog. For another, he found it agreeable.
He slid an arm about her shoulders and squeezed her hand, as though by way of shepherding her in the required direction.
“D’you mind not touching me?” said Susan.
Labotte started, and the greasy hands fell away.
Then he rapped his knuckles.
“Ah, then,” he simpered, “you mus’ be more gareful, block-face. You mus’ nod go to frighden your leedle ’orse.”
Susan passed out of a door and sat down in the hall. This was empty, but it was not remote.