“Are you in the Service?” She asked him. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. Without preamble, in a voice of extreme exasperation, he demanded, ‘Now what the devil’s to do? What in God’s name do you mean by sending Gerald such a ridiculous letter? Never read anything half as crazy. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. You may command my services at any time. Charley Pevenill was our host.
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