The fever came. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. On this side of the canal she has no place to go. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you.
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