He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. ‘Here we go again. The thought of beauty became an obsession.
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