The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. But you belong to me—and I want you. Befuddle yourself, if you want to. " "Is she alive?" repeated the widow. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means.
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