"It was silly. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. “Ugh!” she said. "Sir Cecil is no more. ’ ‘I didn’t bring him,’ Gerald returned swiftly. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. ‘You don’t know the whole, child. Even our coarseness. You will go to London?” “It is necessary,” she answered. “Because I hate you!” She spat.
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