“And yet I do it without compunction. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. ‘I was not born to this. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. To-night all London believes that he was your husband.
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