Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. Clothes. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. You have misunderstood. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet.
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