What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. “We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. . . ’ ‘You were quite as bad to me as I was to you,’ Gerald protested mildly, sitting down beside her.
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