The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life. Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "I have just parted from one," said Trenchard.
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