’ ‘It’s no use blaming me, Gerald,’ uttered Roding, shrugging helplessly as his senior turned questioning eyes on him. “Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. Not then. I'll knock off at tea. I can't invent; the thing won't come. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. It had not tasted good since 1350. But I have not done so, and will not. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. It was not for a week or a month. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished.
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