Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. Spurling had retired for the night. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct.
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