Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. I’m not Gerald, remember.
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