She appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp. “I love you, you know. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song.
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