The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. “I’ve been looking out for you,” he said. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. Only the major won’t have it, and we’ve to bide by what the major says.
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