Bijou felt heavy and drowsy, but not unconscious. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she could not make the effort to open her eyes. But she felt her dress so lightly lifted that she could not be certain. It could have been a breeze. Lifted by a breeze. No human touch. The air was lifting her skirt it seemed, and exposing her silk-clad legs. Where the stockings ended, she felt a light touch. As if a feather had been brushed against her skin. The touch was so light that it was as if the skin had a thousand tiny eyes and the touch had lifted their eyelids, and light and heat fell upon them, waves, currents, vibrations of response. Each tiny cell instead of contracting at the touch, expanded and became twice as sensitive. She never moved. Her deepest fear was that the hand should stop, grow timid, withdraw. She wanted to move, so as to place a leg a little more sideways, separate from the other so that the fingers could reach the inner skin which was more sensitive than the skin of the thighs.