It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. Must be plenty of work for you to do. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale.
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