He embraced her fully. “We have to get in, I think,” said a nice little old lady in a bonnet to Ann Veronica, speaking with a voice that quavered a little. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. I can’t help you a cent. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry.
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