She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. If she mentioned Ramage he might have a fit—anything might happen. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. “Why not?” he exclaimed. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. His orgasm was quick, spasmodic.
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