Ellie sat in silence and cast her mind back to the past. Alfie had never been like this. Alfie had joked and laughed, teased and tormented and then he had been hungry to make love whenever they could. Once they had begun their lovemaking, it was as if they both flung caution to the winds. He used to touch her hand under the table or with dangerous daring; he would fleetingly move his hands over her breasts when he passed her by. A tangible flow of s****l energy would always pass between them even when he stood by her at the piano and turned the pages for her. He was thrilling, he was exciting. She felt Thorpe's flow of s****l energy but no response in herself. Perhaps she would never ever feel it again for any other man but Alfie. Yet - this Frederic Ashton Thorpe was an artist, a poet
