She wanted him, she needed sex, but the two ideas had not formed an equation where a concrete result could be deduced. “To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. He wanted her named Mary. His fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. She refused to eat.
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