And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. Gerald crossed back to the window. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. And we are not traders looking at equivalents. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. You’ve got me.
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