The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. He was like a man beside himself. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off. Odd, but he had never thought of the beach until this girl (who looked as if she had stepped out of the family album) referred to it with a familiarity which was as astonishing as it was profoundly sad. That is very certain. It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly.
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