Assuaged, by the fact that Franchone has not overreached chaste bounds or breached propriety, nor even moved his hand from where her own had bade it rest—her indiscretion symptomatic of a piecemeal profanation that exposure to the West, alas, has hastened—Zahra weighs the pros and cons of straying further still from rectitude, such doubts themselves precluding her return. Apostate! Whore! Self-condemnation vies to counteract seductive curiosity. Could the organ she thought damaged past recovery be restored? Her reservations set aside (recriminations notwithstanding) Zahra once more takes possession of her bedmate's docile hand and draws it downward onto the crux of her compromised sex.