ollow of my throat. He looks, as if fascinated. ''How fast your heart beats,'' he whispers. He lowers his hand, as if he means to test, with his finger, the racing of my blood.
''Touch it,'' I say. ''Touch it, and die. I have poison in me.''
His hand stops, an inch from my throat. I hold his gaze, not blinking. He straightens. His mouth gives a twitch, then curls in scorn.
''Did you think I wanted you?'' he says. ''Did you?'' He almost hisses the words—for of course, he cannot speak too loudly, in case Sue should hear. He moves away, agitatedly smoothing his hair behind his ears. A bag lies in his path, and he kicks it. ''God damn it,'' he says. He takes off his coat, then tugs at the link in a cuff, begins to work savagely at one of his sleeves. ''Must you stare so?'' he says, as he bares his arm. ''Haven''t I already told you, you are safe? If you think I am any gladder than you, to be married—'' He comes back to the bed. ''I must act glad, however,'' he says moodily. ''And this is a part of what passes for gladness, in marriage. Had you forgotten?''
He has drawn back the blanket, exposing the sheet that covers the mattress, at the level of my hips. ''Move over,'' he says. I do. He sits, and awkwardly turns. He reaches into the pocket of his trousers and draws something out. A pen-knife.
I see it, and think at once of my uncle''s razor. It was in a different life, however, that I went stealthily through that sleeping house, cut the pages of books. Now I watch as Richard puts his nail to the groove of the knife and eases free the blade. It is spotted black. He looks distastefully at it, then lays it against his arm. But he does it uncertainly, flinching when the metal touches. Then he lowers the knife.