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“Half aware of him, Rosalind shifts position, fidgiting with a feeble turn of her shoulders so that her back is snug against his chest. She slides her foot along his shin and rests the arch of he foot on his toes. Aroused furthe, he feels his erection trapped against the small of her back and reaches down to free himself. Her breathing resumes its steady rhythm. Henry lies still, waiting for sleep. By contemporary standards, by any standards, it's perverse that he's never tired of making love to Rosalind, never been seriously tempted by the opportunities that has drifted his way through the generous logic of medical hierarchy. When he thinks of sex, he thinks of her. These eyes, these breasts, this tongue, this welcome. Who else could love him so knowingly, with such warmth and teasing humour, or accumulate so rich a past with him? In one lifetime it wouldn't be possible to find another woman with whom he can learn to be so free, whom he can please with such abandon and expertise. By some accident of character, it's familiarity that excites him more than sexual novelty. He suspects that there's something numbed or deficient or timid in himself. Plenty of male friends sidle into adventures with younger women; now and then a solid marriage explodes in a firefight of recrimination. Perowne watches on with unease, fearing he lacks an element of the musculine life force, and a bold and healthy appetite for experience. Where's his curiosity? What's wrong with him? But there is nothing he can do about himself. He meets the occasional questioning glance of an attractive woman with a bland and level smile. This fidelity might look like virtue of doggedness, but it's neither of these because he exercise no real choice. This is what he was to have: possession, belonging, repetition.” — Ian Mcewan