His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. They sat down, McClintock reaching for a lump of sugar which he began munching. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. ‘Why does this person say you are mad?’ ‘Because I am risking having my head blown off,’ Gerald answered cheerfully. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. His tongue was hot.
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