He is steeped in the conventions. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. . She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. ‘You would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so.
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