And all the talk of the Miniver people and the Widgett people seemed always to be like a ship in adverse weather on the lee shore of love. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her.
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