You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. She wanted him, she needed sex, but the two ideas had not formed an equation where a concrete result could be deduced. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him.
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