He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. Don't be frightened of her. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. He was disquieted. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. “Of course I mean, who was she?” “I believe that her name was Pellissier,” Ennison answered. "She is.
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