"Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. She felt his tongue press into her mouth. If he senses fear in the touch of your hand, he'll give you trouble. When they made love, he seemed to shift into the realm of possessiveness. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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