. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. ’ ‘Oh, a ruin,’ exclaimed Mrs Sindlesham, throwing up a hand. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Do you indeed remember? The smell of decay and cheap methylated spirit!. I love you—unendurably. . She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding.
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