The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. “He ran some Austrian fellow off. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in.
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