" "Let me see. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. I’m damaged goods. I want you to be my lover. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. She wedged the towel between her legs. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked.
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