His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. And now you are acting the cuckold, because I do not wish to waste my seed in your barren womb?\" She was too devastated to answer him. It was difficult to get right. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. A young man was playing the banjo. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear.
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