Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones. And I want you for myself—for my wife. ’ He only laughed. ‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. “So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept.
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