"I'll read character until the cows come home if you'll let me hold it."
"Go on. And no nonsense."
"Have you ever operated a typewriter?" he asked slyly.
"No. Why do you ask?" she asked sharply.
"Oh, nothing. This hand looks to be capable of anything."
"But my character?"
"Ambitious, luxury-loving and cruel," he began mockingly.
She snatched the hand away. "Horrible! You're no character-reader!"
But he had had time to see what he was looking for: on the inside of the index finger was a large pale mole, as big as the button on a woman's glove.