"Do that to me," he said. Mystified, Rhoda pressed her finger against his neck until she could feel a pulse in his throat. She withdrew the finger. "Like that?" "Did it leave a mark?" "No. Is there something wrong? Do you have a sore throat?" "My throat is not sore." Rhoda's frustration was a pitiful thing. How could she get to him? How could she break through his shyness? "I think you're afraid of me," she said lightly. He did not answer. He took a backward step and regarded her for a moment with a frown. Then he began to unbutton her blouse. Rhoda wanted to object. An instinctive protest caused her to draw back. His only reaction to this was to step forward and continue to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to resist but the fear of driving him away held her mute; that and something in his eyes that told of excitement, an unformed phantom of delight that had never materialized but still held sway over her through promise. He stripped the blouse off. She wore no brassiere underneath, and he regarded her breasts somberly. He pressed a nipple with the tip of one finger and watched it spring back into place. "Please. I--" He ignored her. He pressed the nipple again and then found the zipper on the side of her slacks. He pulled it down and pushed the slacks down over her hips. She lifted each foot obediently. He was on his knees now, running his fingers gently down her thighs. Rhoda trembled at the touch. Then she realized it was not love-making on his part--not in any sense. He was preoccupied with the fine hair on her skin. He studied it closely. "I should have shaved my legs," Rhoda said uncertainly. He raised his head, the cold eyes trained into hers. "This hair grows, too?" Rhoda caught her lower lip between her teeth. Tears were close to the surface. _This is crazy. This is utterly insane. I'm mad or he's mad. I don't know. I just don't know ..._ The last garment was removed and she was naked there in the middle of the living room. He studied her body again, that passionless, preoccupied frown on his face. He drew her down onto the floor and, for a moment, the room spun around Rhoda, her emotional entrapment now the focal point, the eye of the storm that raged in her being. He went on with his minute inspection of her person. _No--no. Please don't. Please don't treat me like this. I'm a woman. Don't be contemptuous of me. Oh, no--please. Don't degrade and humiliate me like this._ There was sudden pain. Rhoda's body wrenched and heaved upward. With a sob, she sank back to the floor. _I must fight. I must not allow this. I must not let him do these cruel, degrading things to me. I must fight but I am afraid to. I am afraid he'll go away and never come back--and if he did that, there would be nothing left for me._ John Dennis seemed to become aware for the first time that certain manipulations caused reaction--the jerking of Rhoda's body and her involuntary cry of pain. He repeated the manipulation with his eyes on her face.