He rose to leave, and she held out her hand. At
its touch he recalled how pointed the fingers were;
it was incredibly cool and smooth, yet it seemed to
instil a subtle fire in his palm. She stood framed in
her doorway, bathed in the intimate, disturbing
aroma of her person. Gordon recalled the cobwebby
garment on the bed. He made an involuntary
step toward her, and she drew back into the
room... the night was breathlessly still. If he
took another step forward, he wondered, would she
still retreat? Somewhere in the dark interior he
would come close to her.

"Good night." Her level, impersonal voice was
like a breath of cold air upon his face.

"Good night," he returned hastily. "I got turned
right around." His departure over the gallery was
not unlike a flight.

[[181]]

p180 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p181w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p182

v?