“And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. He was unable to possess Lucy's hand as he had in the cinema, separated by the annoying chasm between the van's plush seats. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. “But for you Dad would never have let me marry Lescelles. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs.
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