Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. She would write to Gerald. Her back stiffened. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey.
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