Melusine, intent upon preventing Gosse from securing the fallen weapon, paid no attention. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames.
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