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Here, it might be anything at all. ’ ‘And it is very stupid of you to think of such a thing, because in this case, why should I seek out my family?’ Triumph rose in Gerald’s breast, but he took care to conceal it. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. "I shall be obliged to hang him to keep him company. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall.
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