Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns. Can’t face a scandal. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. 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. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses.
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