“That’s John Thomas’ hair, not mine!” he said.

“John Thomas! John Thomas!” and she quickly kissed the soft penis, that was beginning to stir again.

“Ay!” said the man, stretching his body almost painfully. “He’s got his root in my soul, has that gentleman! An’ sometimes I don’ know what ter do wi’ him. Ay, he’s got a will of his own, an’ it’s hard to suit him. Yet I wouldn’t have him killed.”

“No wonder men have always been afraid of him!” she said, “He’s rather terrible.”

The quiver was going through the man’s body, as the stream of consciousness again changed its direction, turning downwards. And he was helpless, as the penis in slow soft undulations filled and surged and rose up, and grew hard, standing there hard and overweening, in its curious towering fashion. The woman, too, trembled a little as she watched.

“There! Take him then! He’s thine,” said the man.