McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly. I feel beautiful. Jack was not half your age when he died. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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