‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. "The part was crooked," she explained. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. There must be something we can do. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. "Swear that you will do this," she cried. They walked two by two to the car, looking the part of 267 two weary spouses supporting their drunken mates after an all-night bender. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. "Something worse, I fear," Wood replied. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More.
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