The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door.
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