He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. Ann Veronica was excited and puzzled, with a sense of a strange and disconcerting new light breaking over her relations with Ramage. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. "My portrait!" echoed Jack.
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