He looked at her, hurt. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. “I thought you weren’t keeping up to the mark. "And now, mark me. ‘I do not know your Gérard. ’ ‘Willingly?’ ‘Parbleu, what a person you think me. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. ’ ‘Pray don’t,’ begged Mrs Sindlesham, one eye on the general’s embattled features. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. We already had a place to mislay blame.
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