Until now none of her prayers had ever been answered. ‘You would know more of me?’ ‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting. Madame shrugged. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart.
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