as if she were in the habit of undressing as she walked and flinging her clothes as she went.
A fine layer of dust covered everything. "Well, you're Mr. Gordon," she said, looking me over.
"I've been dying to get a peek at you ever since you moved in. Have a seat."
She scooped up a pile of clothing from one of the chairs and dumped it onto the crowded sofa.
"So you finally decided to visit your neighbors. Get you a drink?"
"You're a painter," I burbled, for want of something to say.
I was unnerved by the thought that any moment she would realize she was undressed and would scream and dash for the bedroom.
I tried to keep my eyes moving, looking everywhere but at her.
"Beer or ale? Nothing else in the place right now except cooking sherry. You don't want cooking sherry, do you?"
"I can't stay," I said, getting hold of myself and fixing my gaze at the beauty mark on the left side of her chin.
"I've locked myself out of my apartment. I wanted to go across the fire escape. It connects our windows."
"Any time," she assured me. "Those lousy patent locks are a pain in the ass.
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