His lips gave out a sound that was not a prayer, but something between a murmur and a moan, distinctly audible.

She felt his gaze as a gross, tangible thing, as a violent hand, parting the veils of prayer.
She bowed her head lower and pressed her hands to her face till the blood tingled.
The sermon obliged her to sit upright and exposed.

It gave him iniquitous opportunity.

He turned in his seat; his eyes watched her under half-closed lids, two slits shining through the thick, dark curtain of their lashes.

He kept on pulling at his moustache, as if to hide the dumb but expressive adoration of his mouth.