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‘What you can do, Lucy, rather than make enquiries, is introduce me to this comte and comtesse. ’ ‘Like your father,’ Gerald put in deliberately. Well, I'll have a look-see at this young De Maupassant. ” “I wasn’t jesting,” said Capes, abruptly. “In a sense—yes. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. “Of course!” he said. ’ Gerald considered. You'll have it down. Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. ” Lucy yanked him into the hidden door to Room 109, a door to the backstage that looked like the entrance to a broom closet.
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