There was no caress in the touch—only a kind of desperation.
He thought, “If she really made a practice of this, she would do it better.”
“Truly,” he said, “I oughtn’t to stay longer. It wouldn’t be safe for you.”
“I’ll risk it,” she said.
A passionate woman might have said it passionately. Or with a brave gaiety. Or challengingly. Or alluringly. Or mysteriously.
She said it grimly. Her fingers dug at his arm.
“Well, damn it all, I’ll risk it,” thought Wimsey. “I must and will know what it’s all about.”
“Poor little woman.” He coaxed into his voice the throaty, fatuous tone of the man who is preparing to make an amorous fool of himself.
He felt her body stiffen as he slipped his arm round her, but she gave a little sigh of relief.
He pulled her suddenly and violently to him, and kissed her mouth with a practised exaggeration of passion.