Mary nodded, her eyes on his chest and not his face. "You will have to be gentle with me," she said quietly. There was still some fear on her part, even if being with Jim meant being with someone she loved as opposed to someone she hardly knew. Pamuk had died in her bed and Mary wondered how much of it was her fault. Technically the man killed himself, as all she'd really been able to do was lie there. She hadn't done anything. Still, it rang in her head that he died while being with her, so she must be the cause.