“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. Bah. He groped her buttocks. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Imbecile.
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