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. His number was unlisted and unpublished. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. ‘Gérard is not mad, only of a disposition entirely interfering.
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