. . Come and have lunch with me. “Really,” she said. ’ ‘Exactement. We married, and for a time we were happy. He looked distant, irritated. Let us walk about. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.
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