The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ” “How dull you are,” the lady remarked. Tight. ” Annabel yawned.
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