tion. Passion! PASSION!!! You aren't saved yet. You haven't seen the picture YET! Snuggle! SNUGGLE!
Harold tried desperately hard to snuggle. He put one arm tentatively and awkwardly around Zimbule's waist. With valiant cozenage she fell limply into his lap. Now the gods had not given Harold any talent for acting, but he was not entirely bereft of natural feeling. Quite unexpectedly he began to sense the spirit of the scene.
More like it! shouted the director. Now, look at the madonna and think of your poor little wife at home. Harold obeyed. The blood rushed to his face.
Push her away!
Harold pushed. Zimbule fell before him, pleading on her knees. She wept, she wrung her hands, she clasped his legs,
Keep your eyes on the madonna! Sp—URN the gurrrrulll!
Harold kept his eyes on the madonna. His nails were digging into his palms as he held his arms tight against his sides. His brain began to reel. Quite suddenly he had realized that he desired wildly to take Zimbule in his arms, to caress her, to kiss her violently, to crush her, to beat her. So love was like this. All that was needed to set one afire was propinquity and opportunity. Alice one week; Zimbule the next. He began to have a glimmering of understanding and he recalled Campaspe's
