hed with wild laughter; the very idea of being touched made her
shiver. We were on the sofa, she yelling struggling whilst I pinched
her, she trying to get away from me, but fruitlessly; I buried my face
in her breasts which were now largely exposed, and she fell back I with
my face on her, and holding her tight. Then I put one hand down, feeling
outside for her notch; that stopped her screaching, and she pushed me
off as she got up.

I soothed her, begged pardon, spoke of the hair in her armpits, wondered
if it was the same colour that it was lower down. Now she shammed anger,
boxed my ears, and we make it up. I produced the garters. "Oh! what a
lovely pair." "They're yours if you let me put them on." "I won't." "Let
me put on halfway up." "No." "Just above the ankle." "No, my stockings
are dirty." "Never mind." "No." Then she made an excuse, said she must
see to something, and left the room. I thought she was going to piddle.

She came back. I found afterwards she had been out to lace up her boots,
they were untidy. It was coquettishness, female instinct, for she wanted
the garters, and meant to let me try them on, though refusing. "Where
do you garter, about knee?" "I shan't tell you." "I've seen,--let me put
them on below the knees." "No." "Then I'll give them to another woman
who will let me." "I don't care." I threw the garters on to the table
after some fruitless attempts. I was getting awfully lewd with our
conversation.

"Do you like reading?" "Yes." "Pictures?" "Yes." "I've a curious book
here." "What is it?" I took the book out. "The Adventures of Fanny Hill"
"Who was she?" "A gay lady,--it tells how she was seduced, how she had
lots of lovers, was caught in bed with men,--would you like to read it?"
"I should." "We will read it together,--but look at the pictures,"--this
the fourth or fifth time in my life I have tried this manoeuvre with
women.

I opened the book at a picture of a plump, leering, lecherous-looking
woman squatting, and pissing on the floor, and holding a dark-red,
black-haired, thick-lipped cunt open with her fingers. All sorts of
little baudy sketches were round the margin of the picture. The early
editions of _Fanny Hill_ had that frontispiece.

She was flabbergasted, silent. Then she burst out laughing, stopped and
said, "What a nasty book,--such books ought to be burnt." "I like them,
they're so funny." I turned over a page. "Look, here is she with a boy
who sold her watercresses, i