“Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. Always at your service. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. He struck out from the shoulder, and the man measured his length upon the pavement. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly.
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