The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. It was a moment or two before Gerald, opening his eyes on the girl’s astounded expression, recollected himself sufficiently to pull out of the extraordinary impact she’d had on him. They either ran to see or ran for shelter.
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