She herself sipped a glass of brandy--but slowly.

She sat near to Sisson--and the great fierce warmth of her presence enveloped him particularly.

He loved so to luxuriate, like a cat, in the presence of a violent woman.

He knew that tonight she was feeling very nice to him--a female glow that came out of her to him.
Sometimes when she put down her knitting, or took it up again from the bench beside him, her fingers just touched his thigh, and the fine electricity ran over his body, as if he were a cat tingling at a caress.
And yet he was not happy--nor comfortable.

There was a hard, opposing core in him, that neither the whiskey nor the woman could dissolve or soothe, tonight.