" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Gerald in a low tone. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. His father spoke for him. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. So it does. ’ Emile reached out both hands and grasped her shoulders.
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