‘How much does he know?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned narrowed eyes on Gerald. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. “How unkind!” she exclaimed. “Act three. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. He's nice. She is a stranger to you.
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