The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. ” “There’s green-fly,” admitted Ann Veronica. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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