Suddenly he held them out to her.
It was a gesture so impulsive, so uncharacteristic it seemed of startling significance; and she could not answer it.
‘Yes, they are cold,’ he said. ‘Let me feel yours. Yours are cold too. What funny hands—so thin and narrow, such delicate bones. Rather lovely.’ He clasped them hard in his own. ‘When I do that they seem to go to nothing.’
She smiled at him dimly, half-tranced, feeling her eyelids droop over her eyes, giving him, with her helpless hands, all of herself; as if, through her finger-tips, he drew her in to himself in a dark stemlessly flowing tide. He stroked her palms, her whole hand, over and over with a lingering careful touch, as if learning the outline by heart.
‘They feel so kind,’ he said musingly. ‘They are, aren’t they, Judy? Dear little kind things—like the rest of you. Are you always kind, Judy?’
‘Always to you, Roddy, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He relinquished his clasp suddenly, saying with a shake of the head:
‘You shouldn’t be.... However, I’ve warned you.’
‘Yes, you’ve warned me.’