He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. He was so horny that he could probably make love to a tree. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. But in the early days of her abduction, she did not allow him to touch her.
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