’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. According to Lucilla, this comtesse had constituted herself something of a social leader in the rapidly growing assemblage of refugees, and would undoubtedly be ready to introduce an eligible bachelor appropriately. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father.
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