“Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. For the sort of love-making you think about. A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.
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