"I feel like work," he lied. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. He had hired not one but two engineers to record the event, subsidized entirely out of his own meager pocket.
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