The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. ‘Well, I thought as how someone in the house in Paddington might see me hanging about outside like.
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