Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket. She never expected to get her ladyship home alive. She undid his zipper and pulled his shorts down his hips. I have been very foolish, but it is over.
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