“They are still following,” he hissed. I built a fire, and put the billy can on to boil, while he kept up a commentary.“They’ve stopped—no, they start again. They are a furlong away and moving at a trot.”I had just put the nose bags containing some oats and bran on the two Percherons when the four riders drew alongside. The leading rider was a man of about sixty years of age, with the thin, menacing, face of a ferret. He wore a black, all enveloping, riding cloak, and an unfashionable tricorne hat. His posture in the saddle hinted at military service at some time.As he pulled his horse to a stop alongside me I noticed a thin white scar on his right cheek, which was quite conspicuous against his saturnine complexion. It ran from the side of his mouth to the corner of his eye, and the wound must have caused damage to the muscles under his cheek, for his right eye drooped downwards slightly, while the side of his mouth had an upward slant—giving him a permanent leer. He spoke, in good. Real human desires trumped those of the characters in novels, and I still don't know where they came from.What breeds desire?It's been two years. How often since has she thought of it? Every day? Jennifer could tell something was different, almost from their greeting, but she had no desire. She was uncomfortable because her friend was coming on to her in little ways. Francesca was. Her dear friend from grad school, married and divorced, and tenured the same year Jennifer was. They'd traveled together before. Now they were rooming together at the meetings, the first time in a long time.What breeds desire? Jennifer doesn't know. There hadn't been any, not for her, but for Francesca? Why was she acting differently? What changed?Did I give you signals, Franny? I didn't know. I really didn't know.Francesca wasn't any more subtle about it than men are, sitting too close, touching more often than she should, keeping contact a second longer than necessary. There were the pointed little sex.
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