He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. “We can,” he said, “and we will. ” “I may have to run,” said her father, with an appeal to his watch. Shoplatch.
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