It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. “You see,” she said, very gently, “I AM going. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. She had nothing to say for herself. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said.
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