She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. She had no intention whatsoever of spending her life in a convent, but that was not his affair. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby.
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