"An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. ‘Bon. "My sight is failing me. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. " "I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own. ‘She obviously likes Leonardo. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. We’re closer than you think. "Where?" she cried. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent.
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