It was the last thing she felt like drinking. The servants had left the room. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. “Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. ’ ‘Addlepated imbecile, Hilary,’ corrected Gerald calmly. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks.
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