She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. Pure luck! But for that bottle of whisky, nobody in the Hong-Kong Hotel would have been able to identify the photograph; and at this hour James Boyle O'Higgins would have been on the way to Yokohama, and the trail lost for ever.
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