We dine at seven-thirty. What need had she of Gerald, or anyone? Yet, if he was here, would he not make some foolish game with her and make her laugh? Instead of behaving in this fashion so stupide, and crying, crying, crying. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. “Absolutely platonically,” she said.
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