’ The girl shook her head violently, setting the feathers on her hat bobbing. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. That was the only sound he heard. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her.
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