His friendship seemed a thing worth having. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. They were really very fine and abundant, with a blaze of perennial sunflowers behind them. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company.
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