Sir John hesitated. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. You two have a good time.
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