He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. "I thought you were asleep. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. “Lucy, you.
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