She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. Dinner was served at 5:30. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt.
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