He threw her on the bed. His hands reached under her skirt. "You're on," said O'Higgins. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. “You should probably wash all of that stuff off of yourself. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it.
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