The change in her face was not a pleasant one. It might be dangerous to thwart him. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis.
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