There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. Of course this thing was absolutely impossible. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. She sings better perhaps. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat.
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