’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. “Really,” she said. Mrs Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a look that wrung his heart. “I have not left this apartment myself. Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?. Twenty guineas, mind.
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