A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. “Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. I have given up painting. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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