‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had undertaken,’ she told Gerald. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Haven’t I shown you over and over again that I mean you no harm? What do I have to do?’ ‘You can go away and leave me to my affairs,’ she threw at him. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Perhaps she was. But God did not put you next door.
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