No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. I was afraid of being talked about. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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