Читать книгу Streets of Night онлайн

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"What nonsense, Wendell," she said. "Don't be so silly. I just played with a ouija board to see what people would say. We talked to Robinson Crusoe."

Fanshaw waved a long thin hand in the air.

"For Heaven's sake, don't squabble. After all those young women, I feel weak. There must have been a thousand of them ... I say, Nan, did you invite the whole conservatory?"

"No, but as they were all dying to say they'd been in the same room with Salinski, I went the limit."

"You certainly did."

"Gosh! The size of that star," came Wenny's voice from the window. In his black silhouette Nan was imagining the moulding of the muscles of the arms, the hollow between the shoulders, the hard bulge of calves. She got to her feet. The grey jade beads hung down from her neck as she lifted the teatable out of the way. The little demon in her head was hissing Careful Nancibel, careful Nancibel as she walked over to the window. Her arm hanging limply at her side touched his arm; writhing hump-backed flares danced an insane ballet through her body. Down the street a grindorgan was playing The Wearing of the Green. What wonderful lashes he has, she caught herself thinking, so much nicer than mine. Warm shudders came from his cheek to her cheek, from his moving lips.