She fidgeted and looked away. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. But, as this produced no effect, and did not even elicit a groan, the prisoner was carried back to Newgate. She leaned a little towards him. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory.
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