If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. Only the next of kin. ” He handed her the phone reluctantly, barely masking his mild disgust. ’ Gerald tutted. He was snoring stupidly. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. . My reception at West Kensington you know of.
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