He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. ‘Looks like it. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. Spurling. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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