I——” The door was thrown open. ’ ‘I am not the imbecile you take me for,’ Gerald said with dangerous calm. “Look round the table,” she said. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. ‘But to do only what one wishes, it is not always convenient. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness.
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