He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. ’ ‘It’s too late for that,’ Gerald told her evenly. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Open it.
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