His eyes were bright with the hunt. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. He wriggled underneath her heaving body, pinned like an insect. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard.
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