Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. ‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. laws alone swamp our small staff. "I'll admit that.
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