She wanted him, she needed sex, but the two ideas had not formed an equation where a concrete result could be deduced. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. You know you do, Annabel. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. “I mean to,” she replied. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. But it was clear she was in no mood for Teddys. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her.
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