"Oh, yes, you are. I know."
His rather thin and very mobile lips tightened, as if to keep back a rush of words.
"You don't know yourself," Charmian continued, still looking at him with those contemplative and possessive eyes. "Men don't notice what is part of themselves."
"Do women?"
"What does it matter? I am thinking about you, about my man."
There was a long pause, which Claude filled by getting up and lighting a cigarette. A hideous, undressed sensation possessed him, the undressed sensation of the reserved nature that is being stared at. He said to himself: "It is natural that she should look at me like this, speak to me like this. It is perfectly natural." But he hated it. He even felt as if he could not endure it much longer, and would be obliged to do something to stop it.
"Don't sit down again," said Charmian, as he turned with the cigarette in his mouth.
She got up with lithe ease, like one uncurling.
"Let's go and look at your room, where you're going to begin work to-morrow."
She put her hand on his arm. And her hand was possessive as her eyes had been.