‘And I suppose I shall be obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. “I want you to kiss me,” she said. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Disappointment flickered in Gerald’s chest, and he did not hesitate to speak his mind, unable to help a reproachful note. They were sure to catch up with her. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me.
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