Anna hailed a bus. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. She would write to Gerald. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath.
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