“When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. I’m right again now. But it was very hard to follow.
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