‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. \" He piped up. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm. And then, as she answered nothing, “Seeing that we are lovers.
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