“The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. I love you calling me Gérard and idiot, and I love you when you threaten me with every weapon under the sun, and—’ ‘Pah!’ interrupted Melusine, scorn in her voice. Such a beautiful boy he is, but his intelligence is marginal. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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