The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave. '—'They can't,' says I. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers.
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