"But I like Bobby Burns best. 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. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Still —there you are!” He paused. 102 When he took her out, he was proud of her. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant.
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