His hands on his well-defined hips, Dominic had leant backwards, so as to
ease his aching muscles.
As he did so, he took the opportunity to quickly glance over his left
shoulder, at the semi-circle of people who were sitting behind him, `Yes,’
he thought to himself, ` he’s at it again.’
It was Dominic’s second time sitting for the class and he was becoming more
aware of each of the group members and the materials that they chose to
use: there was Mrs Peake, over sixty, blue-rinse and a gossip, she worked
in water colour; then there was `young’ Mrs Jones, horn-rim glasses and
twin-set who looked like she should be a librarian, yet worked in a
children’s nursery, she worked in charcoal; Mrs Grey and Mrs Wright could
both paint well and knew it; then there was Jean, the art classes
secretary, who worked both in pastels and water colour, who fussed over the
models, ensuring they were as comfortable as possible.