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. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor.
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