It was a body with the angles
and hollows of a young woman's body not yet developed, but in no way
distorted, and thus interesting and even lovable. Raising his eyes Hewet
observed her head; she had taken her hat off, and the face rested on her
hand. As she looked down into the sea, her lips were slightly parted.
The expression was one of childlike intentness, as if she were watching
for a fish to swim past over the clear red rocks. Nevertheless her
twenty-four years of life had given her a look of reserve. Her hand,
which lay on the ground, the fingers curling slightly in, was well
shaped and competent; the square-tipped and nervous fingers were the
fingers of a musician. With something like anguish Hewet realised that,
far from being unattractive, her body was very attractive to him. She
looked up suddenly. Her eyes were full of eagerness and interest.
"You write novels?" she asked.
For the moment he could not think what he was saying. He was overcome
with the desire to hold her in his arms.
"Oh yes," he said. "That is, I want to write them."
She would not take her large grey eyes off his face.
"Novels," she repeated. "Why do you write novels? You ought to write
music. Music, you see"--she shifted her eyes, and became less desirable
as her brain began to work, inflicting a certain change upon her
face--"music goes straight for things.
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