She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. , etc. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent.
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