The risk I run is nothing to yours. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Manning,” she began. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. “It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth.
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