The young man had knocked over the siphon. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. Terrific shouts were raised by the rabble, who threatened to tear Wild in pieces if he showed himself. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. ‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. “They make me want to shout,” said Mr. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip.
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