“It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. For a moment none of them stirred; then slowly Enschede turned away. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire. It’s my choice, Lucy. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII.
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