Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. This I know, for the Valades have taught me so, and the nuns also. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk.
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