The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. He kissed her neck, moving down to her breasts, trying to consume her with passion. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent.
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