There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. She was radiant. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket.
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