And her blood went on repeating ‘Jennifer’ in her ears.
Geraldine took a gold cigarette case and the amber holder from a gold chain bag with a sapphire clasp.
‘It’s pretty awful, isn’t it, to be so mean and petty? I’m sorry for you, I must say.’
‘Please don’t be sorry for me.’ She noted her own voice, icy and polite.
Geraldine had inserted a thin, yellow cigarette in the holder and was searching for a match.
‘Here,’ said Judith. She got up, took the matchbox from the mantelpiece and struck a light. Geraldine stooped her head down over the little flare. White lids, black curling lashes, broad cheek-bones, Egyptian lips—the heaviness, the thick waxen texture of the whole face: Judith saw them all with an aching and terrible intensity, her eyes clinging to the head bowed above her hand. She should have smelt like a gardenia.
‘Thank you,’ said Geraldine. She lifted her head, narrowed her eyes and puffed out smoke, moving and stretching her mouth faintly round the amber. She smoked like a man.
Judith sat down again.
Geraldine seemed now very much at her ease. She leaned against the mantelpiece, dominating the room: and she seemed of gigantic height and significance.
‘Are you a friend of Jennifer’s?’ she said.