These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. “I am sick of it. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. ’ Relaxing back, Gerald folded his arms. ’ She bit her lip, but her eyes betrayed her. On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. Remember, some day you and I are going to have that book.
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