She felt his crotch through his jeans. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor. He was officially in the nun’s employ, but Melusine had commandeered his services immediately on the discovery that he had conceived a passion for her. No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien after sunset without a license. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled.
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