[Fitcher is still lying in the crispy scrub of coastal grass where he'd left her a few minutes ago. She's taken the following liberties during his absence: shifting from loitering flat her back (which is stiff) on to her side where she may more easily jauntily support her cheek on her knuckles, and undoing every single one of her shirt's multitudinous buttons.
The pipe still between Fitcher's teeth saves her from saying 'Pursue me? That's funny—'
Instead, she looks at him. A cap is produced from her skirt pocket, and the pipe is rolled out of the corner of her mouth into her hand where its ember may be suffocated.]
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The pipe still between Fitcher's teeth saves her from saying 'Pursue me? That's funny—'
Instead, she looks at him. A cap is produced from her skirt pocket, and the pipe is rolled out of the corner of her mouth into her hand where its ember may be suffocated.]