The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. She felt the warm nearness of his. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. "I cannot—will not suffer you to remain here. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Drummond patted him on the shoulder.
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