the pleasances of old Elizabethan houses
“I don’t like tantrumy children,” said the Comtesse, and looked at Alex as if given half a chance, she would smack her too. “He’s only tantrumy because he’s unhappy.[…]”
The waves came round her. She was a rock. She was covered with the seaweed which pops when it is pressed. He was lost.
That is where Mackay uttered his idiocity, and realising how idiotic it was, attempted to shift his idiocity on me. He is a right dishonest bastard!
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