“Do you mind very much?” He shook his head. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “I do mean that,” she declared. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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