I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. “You can say what you have to say before Mr. " Nor was this all.
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