"Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. She leaned back in her chair. "No, I tell you," rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. That’s all about it. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. It wasn’t pretty. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse.
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