Courtlaw rose to his feet. The musician. He had chosen his time well. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound.
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