Quincy and she began to speak.
He listened with rapt and equal interest to her words and his, quavering between them, over their glasses. They were indifferent words. It mattered little what they meant. These words, also, were part of the great, rhythmic flow wherein the sun could pour and the winds could play.
A bitter lust steeped up through his veins, stiffening his body, tightening the clasp of his fingers about her hand. He leaned over, and she leaned over, and they kissed. He caught no scent of her hair. But the feel of her lips was sharp and clinging. They drew him. They heated the liquor in his veins. They made his veins burst.
“Come!” he said, crushing her hands.
Her arms were stiff.
“Where?”
“Home.”
“No,” she said, in a new sharp voice.
Quincy stood up, towering over her.