‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. Like carpenter, like chips. Ann Veronica felt no repulsion at the prospect. Every word you utter puzzles me. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. ‘Typical. You'll find her at Black Mary's Hole.
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