If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip.
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