a black look from
Bella Prodgitt.

Victoria was not 'taking any' either, but she every day found greater
difficulty in repelling him. Burton would stand behind the counter near
the kitchen door during the lunch hour, and whenever Victoria had to
come up to it, he would draw closer, so close that she could see over
the whites of his little eyes a fine web of blood vessels. Every time
she came and went her skirts brushed against his legs; on her neck
sometimes she felt the rush of his bitter scented breath.

One afternoon, in the change room, as she was dressing alone to leave at
four, the door opened. She had taken off her blouse and turned with a
little cry. Burton had come in suddenly. He walked straight up to her,
his eyes not fixed on hers but on her bare arms. A faintness came over
her. She hardly had the strength to repel him, as without a word he
threw one arm round her waist, seizing her above the elbow with his
other hand. As he tried to draw her towards him she saw a few inches
from her face, just the man's mouth, red and wet, like the sucker of a
leech, the lips parted over the yellow teeth.

'Let me go!' she hissed, throwing her head back.

Burton ground her against him, craning his neck to touch her lips with
his.

'Don't be silly,' he whispered, 'I love you. You be my little girl.'

'Let me go.' Victoria shook him savagely.

'None of that.' Burton's eyes were glittering. The corners had pulled
upwards with rage.

'Let me go, I say.'

Burton did not answer. For a minute they wrestled. Victoria thrust him
back against the wall. She almost turned sick as his hand, slipping
round her, flattened itself on her bare shoulder. In that moment of
weakness Burton won, and, bending her over, kissed her on the mouth. She
struggled, but Burton had gripped her behind the neck. Three times he
kissed her on the lips. A convulsion of disgust and she lay motionless
in his embrace. There was a step on the stairs. A few seconds later
Burton had slipped out by the side door.

'What's up?' said Gladys suspiciously.

Victoria had sunk upon a chair, breathless, dishevelled, her face in her
hands.

'Nothing . . . I . . . I feel sick,' she faltered. Then she savagely
wiped her mouth with her feather boa.

Victoria was getting a grip of things. The brute, the currish brute. The
words rang in her head like a chorus. For days, the memory of the affray
did not leave her. She guarded, too, against any recurrence of the
s