stock. 'It is too big,' they said, 'but it is the only nose left, and
when he smiles it will not look too bad.' So they took a chance and
stuck it on anyway.'
'Were you never taught that it is bad manners to poke fun at a man's
weakness?' Bruce fingered his nose ruefully.
'Your nose is many things, but not weak. Never weak.' She laughed now
and moved a little closer to him.
'You know you can attack me from behind your own perfect nose, and
I cannot retaliate.'
'Never trust a man who makes pretty speeches so easily, because he
surely makes them to every girl he meets.' She slid an inch further
across the seat until they were almost touching. 'You waste your
talents, mon capitaine. I am immune to your charm.'
'In just one minute I will stop this car and-'
'You cannot.' Shermaine jerked her head to indicate the two gendarmes in
the seat behind them.
'What would they think, Bonaparte? It would be very bad for discipline.'
'Discipline or no discipline, in just one minute I will stop this car
and spank You soundly before I kiss you.'
'One threat does not frighten me, but because of the other I will leave
your poor nose.' She moved away a little and once more Bruce studied her
face.
Beneath the frank scrutiny she fidgeted and started to blush.
'Do you mind! Were you never taught that it is bad manners to stare?' So
now I am in love again, thought Bruce. This is only the third time, an
average of once every ten years or so. It frightens me a little because
there is always pain with it.
The exquisite pain of loving and the agony of losing.
It starts in the loins and it is very deceptive because you think it is
only the old thing, the tightness and tension that any well-rounded
stern or cheeky pair of breasts will give you. Scratch it, you think,
it's just a small itch. Spread a little of the warm salve on it and it
will be gone in no time.
But suddenly it spreads, upwards and downwards, all through you.
The pit of your stomach feels hot, then the flutters round the heart.
It's dangerous now; once it gets this far it's incurable and you can
scratch and scratch but all you do is inflame it.
Then the last stages, when it attacks the brain. No pain there, that's
the worst sign. A heightening of the senses; your eyes are
sharper, your blood runs too fast, food tastes good, your mouth wants to
shout and legs want to run.
Then the delusions of grandeur: you are the cleverest, strongest, most
masculine male in the universe, and you stand ten feet tall in your
socks.
How tall are you now, Curry, he asked himself. About nine feet six and I
weigh twenty stone, he answered, and almost laughed aloud.
And how does it end? It ends with words. Words can kill anything. It
ends with cold words; words like fire that stick in the structure and
take hold and lick it up, blackening and charring it, bringing it down
