She let Jack go as he passed through the opening. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. For when this Joan said it, I had a memory. The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould. Free! All the fine ecstasy, without the numbing terror. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony.
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