When she came out, he started to rise. "No," she said. "Stay. This is something I have to do. It has tormented me for nine years. I can't pretend it doesn't exist." She came and stood before him, only a dozen feet away, and gazed at him. She had removed her shoes and stockings. Looking at him, she reached back and unzipped the dress. She shrugged it off her shoulders. Bell saw that she had removed her brassiere. Under the dress, she was naked. She slowly pulled down the dress, pausing when she had exposed her breasts. "There are these," she said, her gaze never wavering from his. He nodded. Now, she pushed the dress down over her hips and let it slide to the floor. Like the canvas of a Renaissance Master with a few bullet holes through it, a canvas the vandals also had slashed with a knife. He felt his heart pounding; his face was flushed. What he felt was pure rage that made him ball his fists. He took a long breath; that is not what she needed. For Fadime his rage, at this moment, was irrelevant. She was watching him with a look of patient acceptance, allowing him to react and know his feelings. She stood before him, shoulders back, the very full, high breasts slightly thrusting, the nipples rigid.