“What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. Then she stood up and looked around the room. “Why not? It might amuse me. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. With incredible labour, and by the aid of both spike and nail, he succeeded in getting the point of the bar beneath the fillet.
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