Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust you. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words.
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