‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. Her hormones were raging stupidly. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. We are off for a second honeymoon. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort.
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