‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Charvill’s fury was burning out. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. His chin was angular and his lips were 16 small, his mouth tiny and refined. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. ‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. When he was done she kissed his cheek tenderly. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write.
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