His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. He died in the war. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. A-L-I-V-A—Aliva—T-R-EN—Trencher that's it.
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