A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. Prior to the great adventure, her mirrors had been the still pools in the rocks after the ebb. "Is it wrong, then, to surrender to good impulses?" "In the present instance, yes.
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