It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. I spent this afternoon in detention. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. Occasionally he relit his pipe. And it hampers us. ‘Come,’ she called.
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