once more he was lost in a house of lust. A house that seemed to live to its own time, its own crimson pulse. He was feeling light-headed, his loins throbbing, aching. He was about to sit down on a cushion when the woman reappeared, carrying a glass. The colour was impossible to tell in the light, but smoke seemed to rise from the top of it, and yet when he took it the glass was cold.
