Let me take the satchel, sir. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint.
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