He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. I'll be outside the hotel at nine-thirty. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally.
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