The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. This was in Texas. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Life waits for us. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. ‘I broke in. I want to boast myself. “Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard.
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