8. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. You sent back my Christmas checks. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. At last, she breathed.
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